


Treating Hypothermia

by AliceAvis



Category: Brave (2012), How to Train Your Dragon (2010), Rise of the Guardians (2012), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Depression, Drama, Epic Bromance, Friendship, Guilty Pleasures, Language, Mentions of Death, Multi, Past Abuse, Physical and emotional abuse, Redemption, Sickness, Smut, Some Fluff, Trauma, medical AU, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 93,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceAvis/pseuds/AliceAvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A surgical nurse with curly red hair, a male nurse that I may or may not be in love with (joking), an MMA fighter with a sexy body, a convict that makes me crazy, and a new girl with really long hair. Oh, and I'm a surgeon with an ice cold soul. This should be...interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diagnosis

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :). If you're here, thanks for checking this fic out. And if you're staying, prepare for a lot of reading...but you won't be disappointed (hopefully haha).

Chapter 1:

She dies beneath my fingertips. It's slow. Blood slipping through her veins. Her body breaks. I dropped an hourglass once; it kind of looked like this. Except the blood was sand and I didn't feel so empty. Brown eyes go dark. That light goes out. You know, the light of life? That glimmer inside you that lets others know you are not just some emotionless zombie.

People say that my light is gone.

I'm alive, but it's gone.

Apparently, that's what makes me such a good surgeon.

My light is gone. Her light is gone. The girl on my operating table. She dies beneath my fingertips. It's quick. A red heart suddenly turning cold. I unplugged a television once, it kind of looked like this. Blank screen, blank eyes. Blackness that seeps out of every orifice. Feel it across my gloved hands. Blue latex stained with blood. Am I shaking? No, I'm not shaking. I'm not shaking. A silver scalpel, made for cutting and slicing, presses against my forefinger.

It cuts a hole in my head. Slices my eyes open as I stare at her lifeless body. This never bothers me. It shouldn't bother me now. People become corpses. Corpses become empty dolls in my mind. Seeing dead people is normal here.

This girl was already on course. Paramedics outside the ER. Rain is falling. It goes sideways in the streets. They wheel her out. A little girl hit by a car. Not even a normal car. An evil car that banged her up and drove away. Of course, there were people in that car. Evil people that I can't imagine because I look for the best in everyone. I look for the best chance in my patients. The best vein and artery. The best bone, bleached beneath the yellow lamps. Muscles all bundled together like straws.

I search for it until I find it, the best chance for them to live.

This girl didn't have one. Her chest was already open, her heart already punctured. I tried. She died. That's it. And so she dies beneath my fingertips. Slow and quick. I feel…cold. I say nothing, receding back into the blankness of my eyes and letting my hands fall loosely to my side. Look down at the operating table, gazing at the bits and pieces of a once live little girl. Within the glass eyes and paper lips, I see her. The shadow of my little sister. This could be her, this corpse could be her. I swallow hard and try to look away.

This is too much. I've never had a child die on my operating table. Med school only a few years behind me, brilliance only gets me so far…

Supposed brilliance. Grit my teeth behind my mask. This isn't brilliance. Life is nothing here. Nothing but broken bones with a sprinkle of blood on top. A swollen lamp, which shimmers with fake light, has her in the crosshairs. A spotlight, a stupid, pointless spotlight. I look askance at the nurses standing next to me, unable to blink or breath. Are they staring at me? I can't tell.

They huddle together. No one speaks. Someone just died…wow.

I take a deep breath. It's like my lungs are elastic. "Well, that's that. Just…"

"Doctor."

There's her voice. Merida…the surgical nurse beside me. She stares at me, her blue eyes wide. See her breath, her shoulders move. I'm here, inside this body. I'm out there, watching her, watching me. In the moment of total numbness, I notice the strangest things. The red curl poking out from under her cap. No matter how hard she tries, it's always there.

Sometimes, I see her pull it out. Almost in defiance. But why am I noticing that? Who cares? There's a girl lying dead and all I can see is a stupid curl. This feeling deep inside. I want to rip it off her head, make it stop taunting me.

That's it. I'm done.

I'm done.

"Just finish up." I start pulling my gloves off. Snapping is so loud in this room filled with silence. Maybe it will drown out my thoughts. No one can hear these words inside my head, no one can know. I'm a surgeon, I'm cold and clinical. These thoughts can't be mine. Those things blurring my vision, they can't be tears.

Someone behind me. "Doctor, I—"

"Finish up." Struggling to get the gloves off. Damn gloves, this is so damn hard, so damn stupid, like this room, this hospital, like me. Because I must be damned if I can't even save a little girl.

Merida's hissing in my ear. "Jack. Jack, stop."

She touches my arm. It makes me flinch. What's wrong with me?

"You did the best you could."

My face is twisted with so much confusion and hatred for her right now. Behind my mask, I'm biting my lip, not knowing what to say. "My…my best? This is my best?"

"I think you should step outside, Jack."

No, no. How could she say that? My best? "If this is my best…"

"Step outside, Jack."

I'm on her in a second. Bearing down on her with my eyes. Eyes blue as ice, cold as the operating room. "The hell do you know? This isn't my best….can't be my best."

She isn't fazed. "Step. Outside. Doctor."

Each word punched out. As if on a typewriter. Merida doesn't mind that I'm bearing down on her. Catching her like a star in my net. I catch her and want to extinguish her right there because she is so much stronger than I am. I am jealous of her. That calm demeanor, standing before a fire and never blinking. She should be the surgeon.

I should be dead. Just like that girl on the table. Better yet, I should take her place all together.

Before Merida can touch me again, I'm gone. Blue gloves in between blood-stained fingers. And then I've stepped outside, just like she asked. White door behind my back. I close my hands against it. A long hallway before me. Another set of doors. Beyond that, more hallways, twisting and turning. Ghosts walk through them, the living and dead alike.

Wish I was dead. No, stupid Jack, don't feel sorry for yourself. Just slide down the door and bury your face in your knees. Rip the mask off your face, pull the cap off your head.

I'm crying into my scrubs.

Reminds me of my sister that time I died for thirty seconds. She was sobbing into my mother's pant leg, all snot-faced and puffy eyed. I told her to stop. Just smile. I'm alive now, aren't I? Thinking of my sister only makes me cry harder. This is so unlike me. Reminds me of the time I walked into Hiccup's apartment and found his girlfriend, Astrid, crying. She might look tough, but on the inside she's worried about him and the way his father treats him for being a male nurse and so she was crying and it was so unlike her and I didn't know what to do so I offered her one of the beers that was going to be for Hiccup but he wasn't home yet and then she got drunk and invited Merida over and I wanted to climb into the refrigerator because it was so hot and a tipsy Merida was trying to kiss me and Astrid and, and, and...

So many run-on thoughts. Filling up my mind and making my eyes explode.

We never talk about that night, me and Merida.

She's a Scott. Supposedly, she can hold her liquor. So she couldn't have been that drunk. And that's why we don't talk about it. Because maybe it was real?

Stop it! Stop thinking, Jack! Digging my knuckles into my eyes, I try to stop crying. My hands are shaking. I swear, I'm having some kind of breakdown. Memories are dredged up from the basement of my brain. Things I don't remember.

But this was a long time coming. I've been on edge for weeks, months even. Jumping straight out of med school and into the real world where a screw-up results in death, not a failing grade. I guess I am a decent surgeon. Able to compartmentalize my feelings. They can't always be boxed away, though.

This is it, my first death. Every surgeon has one, the first person to die on their operating table.

Don't get me wrong, I see dead bodies all the time. Rolling beside me, just like passing a car on the highway. I've observed other surgeons, seen people die right there. It's never bothered me before.

This is it, my first death. And it has to be a child.

Bite down on my knuckles. Wipe the tears away. The door is shaking behind me. People are whispering. Merida is probably closing her up, hands steady.

She once told me closing up patients was easy for her. "Like sowing a tapestry for my mum." She assists so many surgeons. It's hard to tell when I see her after a surgery, whether or not the patient died. Her face is always the same. But she feels, I know she does. Because when I first met her and asked her why she had become a surgical nurse, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "Because I want to change people's fates."

So she's finishing up inside the operating room and I'm cowering like a baby out here. It's unprofessional, I know, but give me a break...

The door opens. It hits me in the back of the head. Ow.

"Jack."

"Merida."

There's that red curl. It almost makes me laugh.

Laugh? What the hell?

"You have to get up. You have to tell the family. They're waiting."

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Air spiraling down my throat. Cold and dry. "I can't."

She kneels in front of me. One hand touching my knee, the other pulling down her mask. I see her in her entirety. Blue eyes, sunburnt cheeks. She has a way of looking at people. Like you are the only person in the world, you are the only one that matters. She cares, she really does.

"Listen to me. What happened in there, it will happen again. You can't save everyone."

"But you said you wanted to change fate, that's why you're a nurse. You want to—"

Hands grab my shirt. "I don't always get what I want. No one does. I would love to save every person that comes here, but I can't. Doesn't stop me from trying, though. I'll be damned if I ever stop trying." She's so close to me, noses brushing. I hear her, I really do…

"I know you care a lot about children, Jack. I get it. Watching a child die is…terrifying. But you can't do this."

"I know. I can't breakdown."

"No. I mean you can't do this alone."

It's like time has stopped. I can't breathe or see. She doesn't want me to be alone…wow. Feel her smile against my forehead. Her curls spill out. For a moment, I'm inside a red waterfall. The hospital is gone. I want to be my sister for a few seconds, just so I can look at Merida and tell her what a great friend she is. Because my sister is so good at that.

My best friend holds me until it's time to go. I have to tell the girl's family. Merida pulls me to my feet. Give me a nod, gesture to the door. She goes with me. And then the paramedic who first arrived is there. How he got here, I don't know. All I see is the long hallway. Something drags me down it. An invisible thing. I wish I was invisible right now. It's hard to keep any of this in my short term memory. Broken up pieces of a silent film. The dialogue on the bottom of the screen.

Walk through the doors. Eyes look up at me. Can they read the expression on my face?

I try to analyze them as I walk up. What kind of family are they? What will they do once I tell them? Fall down and cry, bow their heads in silence?

I can feel the fear.

They lean slightly forward. Just say something, please. Anything.

I can't hear myself think. I can't hear myself talk.

"I'm so sorry. We did everything we could, but she didn't make it."

The longest pause in my entire life.

And then a woman falls to her knees and wails. Someone goes to comfort her. A man covers his face with his hands. I hear nothing. A silent film. The next scene is Merida holding some woman. Maybe an aunt, an older cousin.

I can't move.

Time goes by and I want this movie to end.

But it never will.

Blink. Press fast forward and then play. I'm sitting in a car. Hiccup's black, eleven thousand dollar smart car. Why did he buy this? I can barely fit my feet up on the dash.

Hiccup reminds me that I'm not supposed to use his car as a place to relax.

"Come on, get your feet off. And don't recline the seat."

"Geez, give me a break. I had a hard day."

We haven't left the parking lot. He shifts his hands on the wheel. "I know."

A heavy silence. I hear the muffled sound of other cars, the steady thumping of the radio. Can't tell which song it is, the volume is too low. But I hear the base. It vibrates inside my skull. Sounds like a heartbeat, a slow and steady heartbeat slowly decreasing and fading and dying just like that little girl…

Groaning, I throw myself across the passenger's seat and into Hiccup's lap.

"What the hell?" Hiccup flinches, hitting his elbow against the window. "Jack, get up. I have to drive. Just get—"

He pauses. I can't see his face. My head is buried in his legs. My eyes looking into darkness. A pair of scrubs beneath my cheek. They're so soft. That's because he washes them in fabric softener, the syrupy kind that smells like an ocean breeze. He loves to sail. Of course, his clothes would reflect that, too.

Normally, this would be a joke. I tackle him all the time, bury my face in his shaggy hair and tease him about his flat butt. Astrid will usually hit me after a comment like that.

But this isn't a joke.

I'm sad and he's my friend. And that's what I want right now. So when he sighs and places his hand on my head, I don't laugh. It's a long sigh dragged up from his lungs. If I put my fingers on his chest, I could probably feel his ribs moving. But I won't do that. Things are already weird enough. This is a necessary weirdness, though.

We stay like this for a few minutes. He's probably leaning against the door, his cheek in his palm. If someone were to look in the window right now, there would probably be a new rumor spreading around the hospital in seconds. Oh no, Hiccup the male nurse and Jack the surgeon were caught in a car together. Rumors spread like ice across a pond. They're everywhere here.

A little rumor would be nice. I don't even care right now. Maybe I'll tell everyone that Hiccup and I are running away together, that would be hilarious. And then I'll say that Merida and I are actually long lost siblings and maybe I'll sweep her off her feet and kiss her in front of the whole staff.

No. Stop it, Jack. I manage a small smile into those sweet smelling scrubs. Making sure my eyes are dry, I sit up and clear my throat. Run my hand through my hair, plug in my seatbelt, scratch the side of my nose.

Hiccup sighs again and taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

A long pause. A very long pause. He goes to turn up the radio, then stops his hand midway. I start clicking my tongue. Let's count the seconds, shall we?

One, two, three, four, five—

"Ok, you want to head home now?"

There it is.

I nod, a fleeting smile on my lips. Hiccup does his signature eye roll at nothing in particular, then turns the car on and backs out. The drive is long and pretty silent, broken up by bursts of conversation and songs from the radio. Turn the radio up with my toes. My shoes and socks are on the floor. Hiccup gives me unnerving glances, but says nothing. It's fun to piss him off. Slowly pulling at his nerves…using my big toe to turn the dial…smirking and waiting for him to roll his eyes…

Nothing happens.

With a sigh, I lean back in the seat. Maybe I should take a nap, talk a little bit more, turn the volume up. Hiccup keeps driving.

Bits and pieces of words, weaving in and out of the car. Our conversations are random as usual.

"How's Toothless?"

"Good."

"What's he been up to?"

"Well, he's a cat, so he does cat things. Eating, sleeping, playing with the occasional lizard that sneaks into the apartment."

"Sounds nice." I go to pull my hood up, then I remember that I'm wearing scrubs. Crap. "Has he eaten those flowers?"

Hiccup raises his eyebrows. "What flowers?"

"The ones that Merida gave Astrid. You know, to congratulate her for winning her latest fight?"

"Uh, no, I don't know. I know Astrid won her fight. Of course she did, she always does. But what flowers? I would know if there were flowers in my apartment." Drums his fingers on the wheel, his eyes rolling.

I smile. I love it when I know more about his life than he does. "Merida got Astrid a bunch of yellow roses. I went with her to Publix to buy them. And she flipped out because apparently they have dyed roses and you know how she is, all 'that isn't natural. What happened to appreciating nature as it is? Why do people have to change everything?' So she bought yellow instead. Now they're sitting in a vase in the workout/studio room."

Hiccup looks at me for a good five seconds. Want to tell him to keep his eyes on the road.

"Seriously, Jack. It's like you're constantly spying on me. How do you know things like this?"

"Oh, you caught me. I can turn invisible and every night I slip into your room and watch you sleep." I give him a light punch in the arm. "You wish, huh?"

"You're a moron."

A bit more silent driving. Then talk turns to the "sexy fact of the week". It's a game we play every Friday. Just our little way of prying into each other's private lives.

"You go first, Hic."

"Fine."

"And I promise I won't laugh."

He rolls his eyes. "I don't care if you laugh. Anyways, you'll like this one. Sometimes, Astrid and I roleplay…as Vikings."

For a split second, I try to picture this. Both of them wearing those hats with the curving horns coming out the side, Astrid is the wild dragon and Hiccup is the tamer. And now they're moving across the bed, pretending it's a ship. Wow, I am such a perv.

Shake my head, try to get rid of that mental image. Then I start laughing.

"You really shouldn't promise things, Jack." He's trying to sound angry, but he keeps smiling,

"Come on, man, cut me some slack. You, a roleplayer? That's pretty hilarious." I pull my knees up to my chin. "Why Vikings?"

Hiccup shrugs. "I don't know. Does it matter? Anyways, you haven't told me yours, yet."

"There isn't anything to tell."

"No new rendezvous?"

"Unfortunately, no. It's just me in my apartment. Allll alllooonnee." I stress these words and stick my lip out in a pout. Look at me Hiccup, just look at your poor pathetic friend sitting in the passenger's seat. Watch him tap the steering wheel, heave a sigh and roll his eyes. Here it comes. Ask me to stay the night…ask me…

"Listen, you can stay at my apartment if you want. Just for tonight."

"Wow, really? What a generous offer, you are too kind." I flash the biggest smile I can muster. Batting my eyelashes and trying to produce a single tear. Doesn't really work.

Hiccup smiles and gives me one of his don't-overdo-it looks. "Yeah, yeah. You had no idea I was gonna offer. I'm only doing this because you've been having a hard month."

"A hard week, Hic. Not month. I've been fine."

He looks at me for a long time. Those eyes make me nervous. "Trust me, you've had a hard month."

We fall back into silence again. The car hits a pothole. Both of us jump a little in our seats. I lean my face against the window. Cold beneath my cheek. Streaks of sunlight touch the glass, fall across my knees. It's all so awkward now. Because Hiccup is right. He looks into me and through me. I sit here and think about the difference between outside and inside.

He's a nice guy. He found Toothless on the side of the road, hit by a car. And he rescued the broken and bloody cat. I remember seeing Toothless for the first time. White bandages around his abdomen, this angry look in his eye. All fleeting fire that bore right through you and touched your soul. A little dramatic, I know. But it's true. Hiccup shares his cat's glare. I feel it on me now.

Toothless was hit by a car, just like that little girl. Biting my lip, I look out the window. Will this car ride never end? My question is answered in exactly nine hundred seconds. Trust me, I've been counting. We pull into the parking lot. Black asphalt and white lines going every which way. There are plenty of handicap spots, but Hiccup won't park there. He never does.

I stare enviously at them as we pass. Rubbing my nose all over the window, groaning loudly. "Seriously, why don't you ever park there? You have a handicap sticker in the glove box!"

"I've explained this, Jack." He sighs as he pulls into a spot all the way at the end. "There are other people who really need it. I am not one of those people. It would be selfish for me to park there." He tugs on my scrubs. "Stop smearing your face all over my window. I just cleaned it."

"Fine. I'm just saying that you do lack a foot, which makes you legally handicap, but whatever. Do what you want."

"Thanks. I will." He laughs and pulls on my hair.

"Woah, Hiccup's getting flirty." I lunge at him, ruffling his hair with both hands. Thick tresses of brown beneath my fingertips.

Every inch of my hands is nicked and full of tiny holes. Pricking myself with needles in med school, pricking myself with needles when I was alone. Being lonely sucks. Hiccup knows the feeling. When he lost his foot in the airplane accident, he was alone for weeks in the hospital. Of course, I visited. Merida and Astrid did, too. Astrid was there every day.

So I guess he wasn't alone, he just felt lonely. Even when surrounded by all those people. Being alone and being lonely aren't the same, are they?

"Jack!"

"Huh?"

I'm falling against the door, pulling Hiccup with me. I hit the window, the handle, and then it's open. The smart car is parked, thankfully. Maybe not thankfully. It would be fun to roll across the street. Thrown onto the black asphalt, watching the sky backflip as I spin. Red lines down my face, on my hands. There I go again, my masochistic self.

But the car is parked, so I just somersault over the seat and land on the lot. Holy crap…that hurt.

"Jack! Are you ok?"

Taking a deep breath, I roll over. Nod my head. Taste the blood on my lip. I'm laughing. My body shakes against the road.

"This isn't funny! You're bleeding!" Hiccup is leaning over the seat. White knuckles gripping the edge. Eyes wide like moons. Come on, roll them. Roll them. He doesn't.

I'm on the asphalt, shivering and laughing and tasting blood on my teeth and feeling the gravel beneath my skin and looking up at a fading sky as the evening creeps closer and the stars come out against the backdrop of the moon and then I feel a drop of rain. No wait, not rain. It's a tear. I'm crying.

Laughing and crying at the same time. Through a blur of tears, I see his face. He must have got out of the car. Hear the metal foot scrape the side. See the brown bangs and the eyes that look right through me. Everything that happened today comes out. Bones rattle, nails claw. I feel everything.

I am within myself and without. Looking out from the apartment window. Lying on the black asphalt. Hiccup hovers over me.

"Jack? Hey…hey, it's ok."

This is so embarrassing. I don't know why I'm crying. At least it's a silent cry. Shoulders shaking as tears roll down my cheeks.

My voice is a whisper. "Don't look at me."

"No, don't say that. It's all right." Hand on my shoulder. Fingers down my face. "It's ok to cry, Jack."

"I want to be invisible."

"You're not. I see you."

And then he pulls me up in a hug. Hands behind my back. Like a scene out of a movie. All we need is the pouring rain and forbidden love. Even now, I can be funny. Because salt on my cheek will dry and turn to dust. Pour it all into my hands. Pinpricked fingers trembling at my side. But Hiccup holds them steady.

I swear, if he wasn't in love with Astrid…

"Yeah, you've definitely had a hard month."

I shrug. "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I am." He gives me one last squeeze. Something he would never do. "Now get up before this gets too weird. Two guys hugging in a parking lot is a little awkward. Especially since I have a girlfriend."

"So if you didn't have a girlfriend…"

He gives me that look. "No. Shut up." A hand reaches toward me. "Come on, it's almost dark."

I take his hand. His rough fingers grab my pinpricked ones. This has been an embarrassing day. But whatever. A yellow sun is setting. Hopefully my mind will set, too. Set these thoughts into the ocean of my brain and hide them forever.

The steps up to Hiccup's apartment are long and steep. He never takes the elevator. But he should, he really should. I look at the first step. If Hiccup can do this, I most certainly can.

Sitting at their bar, a pint of ice cream on the granite. A silver spoon slowly skims the sides. Circular lights overhead. Drops of mint on my tongue. I love this apartment.

But do I love the girl grumbling about my idiocy and lack of self-control? No, not really.

And lecturing me about self-control…seriously?

Astrid slaps a Band-Aid on my chin and punches me in the shoulder blade. The bar stool jiggles just a bit. I grin. Toes curled around the legs, I go for the little ride, letting the stool shake against the tile. Astrid is pretty strong. But I think I'm stronger. We often argue about that. Of course, I'm just being sarcastic, but she goes all out. It's fun to light her fuse.

She glares at me from across the counter. Blonde bangs in her left eye. "So, Hiccup tells me that you're doing really well at the hospital. It's kind of…impressive."

I raise my eyebrows. Hold the spoon in my mouth with tentative teeth. "You're being uncharacteristically nice today."

A small smile. She holds up a finger. "You didn't let me finish. You're doing well blah, blah, blah. But you need to get your shit together."

There it is. Some of her signature Honey and the Hatchet advice.

I hear Hiccup groan in the other room. These walls are thin. "Come on, Astrid, lay off. He's had a hard day."

His eye rolling habit has rubbed off on her. Those fierce blue eyes touch the ceiling. "You know what's hard?"

"Hiccup's—"

"Stop it, Jack! Just because I'm in the other room doesn't mean I can't hear you or see that stupid smirk on your face!"

Astrid breaks character for a moment. That tough expression falling away. She's giving me a mental high-five. I can tell.

It's gone in a second. Now she's leaning across the counter. Knuckles lined up on the granite with her elbows bent. All angular lines. Some constellation way up in the sky.

She asks her question again. "You know what's hard?"

"Trying to do it with Hiccup while he's still wearing his prosthetic foot?"

She ignores me and holds up a fist. "This is hard. Imagine these knuckles jammed up your nose."

Tap the spoon against my lip. "I'm imagining something else jammed up my nose."

Another audible groan from Hiccup. He emerges from the bedroom, hair wet. He just got out of the shower. The only bathroom in the apartment is off the master suite. How inconvenient. Inconvenient for him. Not me. Because I will gladly stomp through there at three am.

He walks up to the counter. "Must everything you say be sex oriented?"

I don't even try to stifle a laugh. "Oh Hic, you are totally setting yourself up for a sexual orientation joke!"

"Honestly, Jack…"

Give him a shrug. "You know how I am. I'm fluent in three languages. English, sarcasm, and sexual innuendoes." My spoon scrapes the bottom of the carton. "Now you got any more ice cream? Preferably mint flavored?"

"Yeah. It's in the freezer. Here, I'll get it." Hiccup sighs and shakes his head in my general direction. Water hits my face.

Astrid is grinning from ear to ear. I see those slight shoulders shake with laughter. "It's like you're his little bitch. Getting him ice cream, letting him stay the night…"

This is too much. I burst out laughing.

The clinking of silver on my teeth. Breath of A/C on my neck. Sudden cold as Hiccup presses the ice cream carton against my neck. It doesn't really bother me. Not at all.

But I still say something. "What'd you do that for? She's the one who called you my bitch."

"You laughed." He puts the carton in front of me. Crap. It's not mint. "And she's just being harshly sarcastic, and what she's really trying to say is that I am too kind. Isn't that right, Astrid?"

"Basically."

"I knew it."

"Know-it-all."

"Stop it, Astrid. I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed person."

A growl rises in her throat. "Oh you did not just say that!"

In a split second, she's on him, punching him in the arm. "That's for telling me to stop. And that's for calling me unarmed!"

They go back and forth like this. Sliding all over the kitchen floor. Two kids on the ice. Punching turns to playful shoving. Astrid even gives him a slap on that skinny ass of his. This is their relationship. Two dragons in the sky. One spits fire into the other's face. Red hot embers tangled in locks of hair. They dive and weave, shying away from the flames. Like sparks inside a nest of coals. Dying coals all black and withered. I'll sit and let them rub up against each other. Maybe they'll spontaneously combust.

They are two very different people. Hiccup is a male nurse with an ashamed father. He originally wanted to be a pilot, but after the accident, he had to change career paths. The accident, a quick flight in his very own plane, the Night Fury, that resulted in a crash. Shaky controls and wide eyes. It was a gift from his dad, the only nice thing he had ever gotten from his old man. And it skidded in the grass and burst into flames, catching his foot in the twisted metal. Now he is a footless male nurse. He's never been happier, or more insane.

Astrid is an MMA fighter with scars on her knuckles. She is a piece of candy in one of those heart-shaped boxes. Hard on the outside. Soft on the inside. I'll say it, she's sexy. Gets her bangs cut choppy and her braid pulled tight. Each fight is fun to watch. Sweaty hands grab the chain-link. Female bodies writhe. Glistening beneath spotlights, tearing out their hair and screaming. It's hot to watch, hot to think about. Astrid's scream tears up her throat.

They're different people, but they're almost the same. Astrid makes him feel better whenever his father gives him crap about his job. Her blend of Honey and Hatchet advice. Soft butterfly kisses and hard punches to the arm. Hiccup always cheers her on whenever she has a fight. He'll draw complex diagrams representing her momentum and the physics behind the fight. Here's how to improve the power of your punches. This angle, that angle. Look at all the science.

They are perfect together.

Two dragons in the sky. One dragon cutting jagged lines in the other's consciousness. They have always been like this. Butting heads because they are both so smart and witty. Jabbing at each other can be fun. I watch them fight. Eventually, they'll tire of arguing and collapse onto the couch. Astrid sits as close as she can to him and he leans against her shoulder. An outsider would look at them with wary eyes. Are they in love? What's their deal?

But it's obvious if you stare at them long enough.

An optical illusion looks like nothing at first glance. Can't find the old lady, can't find the young woman. One in the same, who knows? Just a blanket of white and black draped over shapes that hurt my brain. Look again, and there it is. I see it all.

Looking at Hiccup and Astrid on the couch, I see it all again. He slouches, hand gently stroking her knee, eyes focused on the television screen. Pajamas are all bunched up. Toes curl into the pant leg. Just like my toes around the bar stool.

Those pants are way too big for him. Astrid always bugs him about that. But he just rolls his eyes and shrugs it off. For some reason, I want to smile because I got him those pajama pants for Christmas last year and he wears them all the time. Even if they are too big.

Wow, I have way too many feels. Seriously, they're sickening. I'm going to rot my teeth if I keep thinking this way.

I go back to my ice cream. It isn't mint, but ice cream is ice cream. Tri-colored Neapolitan crusted with the ice that comes from too much time in the freezer. Crystals snap beneath the silver spoon. The apartment is silent. Little noises crack through it, seep inside. Static from a radio sitting on the countertop. Quiet voices from the TV. The typical movements of life, Hiccup's yawn, Astrid' sigh when she rests her head on the couch. I listen for everything. Because silence is too much. I've gotten used to it, though.

While time passes, I sit and think. Think about why I became a surgeon. Think about the time I died. Yeah, that's right. Died.

I died once. It was winter and it was cold. Two things that obviously go together. I know that now. Winter used to bring me warmth. A red fire scattering embers across the floor. The sun burning my face as I snowboard down the mountain. Winter was life. It erupted inside me like a volcano. I would smile and laugh as I spun my sister around. We twirled on the frozen pond.

The place where I died.

Ice cracks sometimes. It sucks, it really does. But that's life. I used to tell my sister that. It sounds harsh, I know, but it's true. The unfortunate reality. A messed up world, a truly messed up world that bangs up people and things. And after it bangs us up, it draws back into itself. Deep into the folds of the Earth, the papery thinness of the sky.

That describes the ice that day. Papery thin beneath my sister's skates. She was trembling, her voice was cracking. Cracking ice beneath her skates…

What was I supposed to do?

We played a game. Let's get off the ice before we drown. What a great game to play. I forced a smile, she tried to keep breathing. In and out. Keep breathing, sis. Don't look down. Look at me. Look at me. I'm here and I'm going to save you.

Because I love you.

I never said that. It was all inside my head. Thoughts swimming around my skull. Reality isn't there anymore. Broken ice, pale hands, none of this is real. Just my thoughts, the image of her falling into the water. Move like a marionette. String by string, leg by leg. I'm set on a course. A course I cannot change. So when I heard a sound like shattering glass, when I grabbed her hand and forced her behind me, I knew I was right on course.

Somehow, I knew.

Snowboarding is the same way. Flags ripple beside me. They slap my face as I fly pass. Flurries of snow in the air, in my hair. There are snowflakes on my lips. So tiny and intricate. Sometimes I marvel at them. At their uniqueness. They're like people. I've met so many different people in my life.

In my second life, too. Because I died once, when I fell through the ice. My sister reached for me.

"Jack!"

I did not answer. I fell into the winter and the cold. Two things that go hand in hand. I know that now.

That fact will be branded in my brain forever.

So like I said, I died once. I even got my name in the local paper. The headline was a little exaggerated, but I liked it:

Fourteen-year-old Boy Miraculously Revives After Drowning.

Kind of long, kind of misleading. I didn't actually drown. I'm alive now, aren't I? But I was pronounced dead for thirty seconds before my heart started beating again. It was a new title for me in high school, "The Boy Who Lived". Know-it-all kids would comment that I stole that from Harry Potter.

Whatever.

It was true. Coming back from the dead is a big deal. For a little while. People care, ask you questions, and wonder if you saw a bright light. Then they stop caring. One kid saves a cat from a burning house. Another starts dating the prettiest girl in school. They win. You lose.

And even when I did get attention, I felt cold.

When winter came, the warmth was gone.

Dying affected me in a strange way. For years, I felt like I had never woken up. Worlds change. They grow stiff and frozen beneath a paper sun. Everything turns grey. It's all etched in black crayon.

Leaning against the lockers, hands in my pocket.

I was alone. I was too cold to relate. People stopped talking to me.

Don't look at me, I'm invisible.

And no one did.

But that helped me, changed me again. Months with my head against the windowpane turned into months with my head in medical books. Because I kept thinking about the doctors that saved me. Who were they? No one ever told me.

And I wanted to be like them, whoever they were. They let me live again. If I could do that for others…

"Hey, Jack." Astrid's voice cracks my mind like skates on ice.

I swallow the lump of vanilla in my throat. "Hmm?"

"No more staring into space. We're having a party."

Hiccup groans and lets himself slide all the way down the couch. "I am not in the mood for a social gathering. It'll involve getting intoxicated and doing stupid things that we'll all regret in the morning."

"That's the best part." She picks up her iPhone. It has a skull-and-crossbones case. "I'm texting Merida. What are you laughing at, Jack?"

Crap. She saw. I'm hiding behind my spoon. Silver touching my teeth. "Nothing. I just think it's funny that our idea of a 'party' consists of us and Merida."

"You got any other friends?"

"Nope."

"My point exactly." She looks down at her phone. "Ok, she's coming."

Hiccup stands up and stretches. Cracks his neck, his knuckles. I notice that he winces slightly when he puts weight on his prosthetic. "When will she be here?"

Astrid shrugs. "She'll get here when she gets here. You know how Merida is."

"Fine. I'm gonna go change." He walks into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Astrid looks at me in that weird defensive way. As if to say 'you better not comment about Merida's punctuality'.

I just shrug back and start scooping up some strawberry. Merida is Merida. She wants to stay single forever and ride into the sunset on some painted horse. Freedom is her mantra. Time is measured by sunrises. She lives how she wants. So she'll get here when she gets here. Just like Astrid said.

She gives me another one of those looks. "By the way. Merida's bringing a friend. Don't hit on her."

Hmm. A friend. Interesting. "I am offended that you automatically assume I'll hit on her. Is she hot?"

Astrid laughs. "I don't know. Never seen her. She's a dentist."

I raise one eyebrow. "Ok...so are dentists typically hot or not?"

"How should I know? I haven't been to a dentist's office in years. But seriously, don't hit on her."

"Ok, ok. I'll try to turn off the charm." I don't get why she's so serious about this. Sure, I love women, but I'm not some playboy. Not yet.

Astrid rolls her eyes and goes back to the couch. There's no need for her to change. A mini-skirt and flannel shirt, she looks good.

And so we wait.

We wait.

Another carton of ice cream is tossed into the trash. Cold air conditioning slips through. Over white tile covered with black scuff marks. It's a simple apartment. Hardwood cabinets that Hiccup built himself line the kitchen walls. Ceilings are high so that the circular lights look like tiny suns. Yellow cones touching the countertop. There's one bedroom. Small and square with few pieces of furniture. Hiccup is pretty neat. He keeps the room clean. You'll find an easel in there, paint smeared all over the canvas. Ace bandages and boxing gloves are stuffed into a corner.

In the bathroom, there is a paper cup full of paint brushes and toothbrushes. I like the shower. It's slick and the water comes out burning hot. Sometimes it's freezing cold. Either way is fine with me. I've slept over in this apartment before. So I know how it works. I call this place the land of fire and ice.

Almost nine-thirty. We are still waiting. Hiccup is cutting off my ice cream supply and I'm poking him with my spoon. Astrid is falling asleep on the couch.

Hiccup smiles, leaning against the freezer door. "Look how adorable she is when she's sleeping."

"Ah yes, a perfect angel."

My comment gets me an eye roll and a tiny smirk. We sit at the bar and play paper football with a piece of college-ruled.

It's five past ten when Astrid buzzes them in. All forms of sleepiness fade away when she opens the door and sees Merida. A red frizzball with shining eyes hugs me.

"Jack! Good to see ya. I brought some Scottish liquor, so you better be ready." Peering through the red, I can see the glass bottle inside her purse.

"As ready as I'll ever be." I'm being smothered by her hair. There are curls in my mouth.

"Oh yeah, this is Ana."

Finally free, I see her. This must be the dentist. And she's hot. Really hot. Her skin is mocha coffee, her eyes violet. I notice the rainbow streaks in her bangs. Cute. Refractive glasses shatter the light. And I'm not supposed to hit on her? Fingers hold the hem of her yellow dress. Those fingers are itching to move, so is her tongue. I realize this after she starts talking and won't shut up. She pulls me into a hug and pulls at my lips with her fingers.

Ok, ok, what?

"Wow! Look at those teeth. They're beautiful." She jumps back, giggling. "Oh, sorry! Just got a little carried away. I am a dentist, after all." A little shrug. Shoulders brush the feathers earrings. "Like Merida said, I'm Ana. Nice to meet you. You can call me Tooth, if you like. It's a little nickname Merida gave me."

Merida's giving out nicknames now?

"Uh, hi, Tooth. I'm Jack." Awkward wave of my spoon. Attempting that "smolder" look the hospital janitor showed me one afternoon.

Now that I think about it, why is that guy even a janitor? I mean, he's a pretty attractive dude and the janitorial business doesn't seem to suit him. And I don't even know his name…I've seen him quite a bit since I came here and I don't even know the guy's name…

Merida's laugh catches my attention. Red curls falling into her open mouth. "He's quite the charmer, isn't he, Ana?" She waves a hand in front of my face. "What're ya looking at, Jack?"

"Anywhere but you, princess." I grin and tap the spoon against her forehead. She keeps laughing. It's like she's already drunk.

"Like I said, a charmer! Now let's get this bottle open! It'll be pure dead brilliant!"

Hiccup whispers in my ear. "The Scottish phrases are starting. Imagine what she'll be like after she's drunk."

"We'll hardly be able to understand her." I flick the paper football one last time. A perfect shot.

A perfect prediction, too.

Somewhere around one thirty-five AM, Merida stops making sense. She lies down on the coffee table and says, "Ma heid's mince!"

This night has been long and short. A tape measurer constantly moving back and forth. It started with the removing of the black seal. Astrid's fingernails punctured it and the contents fizzed. Then a cork was popped, a cap was removed. And with each popping and clanking of glass, I fell away from my reality. It's amazing how we compartmentalize things. The events at the hospital faded into nothing as we sang and danced around the apartment.

A twinge of guilt passed painfully. But it fled in a moment, chased away by Hiccup's warm laughter and Astrid's quick punches. I let myself go. We ran into the night.

So now it is one forty-two AM and I'm singing into a microphone with Hiccup. Tooth brought her karaoke machine as a way to break the ice. And yes, the ice is now broken. Smashed into a million bits. I'm tipsy, I can feel it. How else do you explain my cheek pressed against Hiccup's? We sing Pink's "Just Give Me A Reason", taking turns and falling dramatically to our knees. He sings the girl part, I sing the guy part. Astrid is shaking with hysteria.

Turn to Hiccup. Flip my hair, attempt the "smolder" one last time. "I'm sorry I don't understand where all of this is coming from. I thought that we were fine."

"Oh, we had everything." Hiccup closes his eyes and reaches toward me.

The song keeps going.

Merida is still lying on the coffee table. Scotts can hold their liquor, yeah right. Curls spill across the glass. Legs scissoring the potted orchid that is always there, teetering on the edge. Tooth rolls on top of her. Glasses slip off the bridge of her nose and hit Merida in the face. Through mist and haze, I see them giggling and holding hands. My eyes look sideways at it, at this strange anomaly. Merida is not one to show affection. But now…

Roll my head on my neck. Feel the bones crack. Watching them is so…entrancing. The microphone almost rolls out of my hand. Rounded fingernails comb through Merida's thick hair. I hear whispering and a drunken giggle that comes from all over.

The song is still playing. Hiccup falls against me, putting his arm around my shoulders. Turn back to the screen, forgetting all about Merida and Tooth.

"You're holding it in!"

"You're pouring a drink!"

We sing together, spinning in circles. "No nothing is as bad as it seems. We'll come clean!"

Astrid starts clapping behind us. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

We stop and stare at each other. Hiccup loses that intoxicated gleam in his eyes. "Uhh…I'm not that drunk."

"Yeah, me either." I laugh, take a step back, and collapse into an armchair.

Hiccup takes another track. "Harder Better Faster Stronger" by Daft Punk. Astrid comes up behind him and sings over his shoulder. Low words whispered into the darkness. I hear it. Mumbling from both pairs, like insects at night. Atoms rubbing against each other. Skin sweating as heat envelops the room. Fogs full of alcohol and tension. I'm alone in the chair. Every word sinks into my bones.

"Work it harder. Make it better. Do it faster. Makes us stronger."

Inside my head, I imagine an AMV. Eyes half-closed, watching Hiccup and Astrid grind against each other to the beat of Daft Punk. My AMV is full of color. Wishes painted by pinpricked fingers. Brushes in the paper cup by the sink. So many colors.

I wish I could tell Hiccup that I'm still green for him. Telling him that he's the roots in my life. Wrapping my arms around him and finally feeling grounded. Because he reaches for the sky with one hand and reaches for the Earth with the other.

I wish I could tell Merida that I'm still orange for her. Telling her that she makes me feel alive. Burying my face in that red hair and remembering that I'm alive. Because she runs into the sunset and reminds me that society isn't always right.

And I'm still red for Astrid. I see red whenever I'm around her. Anger, excitement, understanding. One time, it might have been lust.

How do I feel about Tooth? I hardly know her. Maybe hot pink or yellow.

I'm falling asleep. Reclining in a low white chair that seems quite out of place in the darkened room. Why it is so dark is beyond me. Oh yeah, it's night. The darkness is irritating, but at the same time it also allows me to see the stars. I look out the window, an empty glass turning between my fingers. All curled up with my head in my hands, I watch my friends.

Black microphone hits the floor. Blonde hair brushes brown. White skin. Mocha skin. They mix like coffee. Sweet milk and sugar melting into the richness of the grinds. Grinding on tight jeans. Astrid's lips trailing up Hiccup's neck. Tooth's glasses trapped between Merida's fingers. All of them come together. Each movement a part of a greater picture. Separate frames clicking by. Who's who? What's what? A splayed hand in a back pocket. Tangled tongues. Flaring nostrils. Someone pulls on a V-neck, stretching the fabric with chipped fingernails. Someone plants kisses on a bare stomach. Green for you, green for me. Potted orchids fall off the coffee table and break. Seeing red. Feeling orange and alive. Confused over the mix of hot pink and yellow.

Alcohol makes them all brighter. And in the dark, they all look like paintings come to life. I've never been one to like art, but when I'm drunk, I see it. They're all soft and beautiful. Hard and jagged. All of them, a painting. Grass, long orange grass brushes their feet and sways in the breeze. Where are they? Pinned to a wall in a museum perhaps. No longer in a room, but on a hill covered with brushstrokes. The sound of bodies twisting and bending under the stress of movement. Eyes rolling and eyelids fluttering. Many feet from them, there is a tree. So green. And the sun is a bright yellow. The sky, a hot pink. Red flames touch the grass.

My drunken mind is good at this. What a surprise.

Astrid and Hiccup are on the floor. Daft Punk is on an endless loop. The song fits well. I watch them and secretly wish I could hide inside the refrigerator.

Because it's too hot. I settle into the white pleather and think about ice cubes.

After hours of singing and trying to drink from empty bottles, I finally fall asleep in the white armchair. Feels like someone is kissing my forehead and whispering into my ear.

"Good night, Jack…"

Sounds like my sister's voice, or some other little girl. This can't be right.

"Good night, Jack. Thanks for trying."

You're welcome, unknown voice. But I don't deserve it. I don't really deserve anything.

I'm not having any dreams. Cracked and crumbling inside my head. Just swirling colors. Green, orange and red. Folds of silence wrap around my skull. Nothing, nothing. And then I'm awake. My eyes snap open and I'm alone in a room painted black. The sun is a quarter of the way up the sky. Blink a couple times. The room is spinning.

I sit a while and think. There's not much to think about in a room full of silence. Nothing but the fan spinning overhead. Dirt is piled on the floor. White orchid petals tucked beneath the shades of brown. Sense the movements of life. A spasm up someone's spine. A twitch of the toe or smack of the lips. People are around me. I feel their presence. Like I'm in a cardboard box in the middle of a crowd. Being kicked and prodded by voices and sounds. No one sees me, but I know they're there. And I don't feel like seeing them right now. Instead, I can retreat into my own head. Thoughts live there. Roaming through the maze of my brain. I bet it's one hell of a maze.

A weird thought surfaces. The unopened letter on the desk in my apartment. White envelope, black writing. The print is neat cursive. I know who it's from. Yesterday morning, I woke up early and checked my mailbox. It is always quiet when I retrieve my mail on Friday. A dark cloud seems to shadow me, the slow turn of my key even slower than usual. No one is watching, but I'm still nervous. A stack of letters was piled before me. One bill, some medical magazine, a Forever 21 catalogue—which I only have because Hiccup signed me up for it as a joke and wrote "Jackie Overland" as my name—and a bunch of ads. And then I saw it. No surprise, it's there every Friday. A letter from him. From Pitch.

If I told my friends, their reactions would be as follows: Astrid would think it's stupid that I write to him. Hiccup would just roll his eyes, but secretly be worried. Merida would be very outspoken and yell at me to stop.

But none of them know. This is my secret.

Pitch is a friend. An old friend that I've known for quite some time. Now he's in jail. I write to him and every Friday his response comes. He has never missed a week. If he ever forgot, I don't know how I'd feel. So I communicate with a convict, big deal. I wouldn't keep it so secret if it wasn't for one thing. The reason why he is in jail.

Because I was there when he was arrested. I was there, lying on the bathroom floor, bleeding all over the tile. He regrets it, I know he does. After all, he did drop the knife and call 911himself. He turned himself in and cried when they sentenced him.

That whole situation, that is something I have never told anyone. Memories swim beneath my skull. But I can't think about that right now. The envelope does not matter. I'll read it later, or maybe I'll cut it up and throw it in the toilet. No I won't. Who am I kidding? I will never throw his letters away. Still, right now is not the time. I need some fresh air.

I get out of the chair, blinking and feeling my way around. Astrid and Hiccup are gone. A black bra is hanging on the bedroom doorknob. Merida and Tooth are curled up on the couch. Both of them breathe deeply.

Outside, the wind is blowing. The plants on the balcony shiver, a leaf falls to the ground. I lean over the railing. Asphalt is black below. In the ocean of suburbia, it rocks and heaves as people run all over it. Hurt it. Violate it. And I think about the time when I died and how the water ran over me. Just like those people did to the road. Just like that car did to the little girl.

There it is. It's back. Run my hands down my face, pulling at the skin under my eyes. I feel something in my stomach, too much ice cream and alcohol. Hiccup would kill me if I puked all over his balcony. But I'll be all right. Because the feeling is going away, replaced by another. Is someone watching me?

For some reason, that feeling has always excited me. Knowing that someone can see me, hear me, feel me. There are eyes fastened to my location. Somewhere below the balcony, someone is watching. I know it.

Somewhere down there.

Someone curious.

Something strange.

Somehow I know and I look over the railing and see her there. A girl walking up to the apartment complex on a Saturday morning. Her hair is golden thread that weaves through her arms and fingers. Into the opening in her purse, into the shopping bag she holds. The bag is full of vegetables. She's looking up at me with wide green eyes. Curiosity, fear, wonder? I can't tell. Light throws her shadow across the sidewalk. Draping the parked cars and concrete curbs in deep black.

Hiccup's apartment is only on the second floor. She should be able to hear me.

I smile. "Hey! Do you need something?"

"Uh, yeah, actually I do." She smiles back. Notice the spattering of freckles on her cheeks. Cute. "I just moved in here and, it's so embarrassing, but I locked myself out of my apartment. I didn't want to bother anyone since it's so early, so I just came outside and there you were up on the balcony." She laughs. "Great timing."

She just moved in? Why didn't Hiccup say anything? She's gorgeous!

I throw my hands up. "Hey, it happens to us all. So, I'll just come down and give you a hand then."

"Really?" Her eyes light up. "That's so kind of you. Thank you so much."

"No problem, Blondie."

Ok, maybe that last word was unnecessary. I'm still a little drunk, so cut me some slack. The girl just laughs, her eyebrows slightly raised.

Now let me just say this, my luck has never been good.

So when I lean a little too far over the railing just to better see her face, I'm almost expecting it. I'm on the right course. And the right course is this:

Falling over the balcony.

I think I hear her screaming, and then I hit an awning.


	2. Treatment Stage 1: Remove Wet Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Jack's fall from the balcony, introduction of Rapunzel, etc...

Listen up, I'm a doctor. A damn fine doctor. So I know what happens when people fall. Broken bones and cuts up and down their face. So many pinholes in pieces of white skin. They end up looking like a kindergartener's art project. I've never been good with scissors. My teachers instructed me through clenched teeth. Hold it like this, Jack. Not like that. But I wouldn't listen. I still won't listen when Hiccup tells me to hold the scissors straight. Blades swerve and then I'm on the highway of paper and glue sticks. Cutting is so much fun. Then I reach the end of the line and there's nothing left.

Nothing but rainbow ribbons. Ribbons of muscle and bone. It's funny, I'm a surgeon that can't use scissors. I can perform a perfect surgery, but when it comes to cutting along the dotted line…

Lines. I see them as I fall. They are red and white. In a split second, vertical stripes are smeared across my vision. Really, an awning with red and white vertical stripes? Could this get any more cliché? I mean, who has those types of awnings anymore? This isn't some cute little café on the corner of Main Street. But what if it was?

So many questions. Letters scramble in my brain. Falling takes forever. My head makes up stories.

There it is, tucked into the corner of Main Street. My little café. Potted plants sit beneath the windowpanes. Water drips down the awning and into black dirt. It just stopped raining. You know this because of all the umbrellas hanging off wrists. All closed up. People walk in and out of the little glass door. Rain boots squeak, puddles of water on the hardwood. Inside, people are drinking coffee, typing on laptops. People doing typical hipster, café-esque things.

And in the corner of my cute café, Hiccup is leaning against the rain-streaked window. He's in the corner of the corner. Sitting in the corner of the café on the corner of Main Street. Typical Hiccup. He has to turn everything into Inception. Impatient fingers drum the table. He's wearing those ridiculous hipster glasses and scrolling through a website. Probably his tumblr page. Oh come on, I know he has one. Astrid conveniently left it open for me one night. So yeah, I know who the URL "sexy-amputee" belongs to. His blog name is hilarious: "Don't call me a murse". Like anyone really uses that name for a male nurse. Do they?

Merida just calls him Hiccup. Astrid calls him her hot nurse boyfriend. I call him a pain in my ass. A cynical, sassy, sexy pain in my ass. His father calls him a disgrace to the family.

Sometimes I want to beat his father with a baseball bat.

But not today. Not right now. Because I am sipping a latte in my imaginary café. Hiccup is on tumblr. Astrid is pouring hot chocolate over a misogynist that just slapped her ass. I see Merida behind the counter. She's the barista. Perfect. There's Tooth on a bar stool. Spinning and spinning. An orchid falls off the counter and breaks. Pieces of pottery go flying. Bits of clay between the shades of soil. This is starting to look familiar.

Cracked ceramic on the floor. It's painted green, orange, red, and hot pink. Maybe there's some yellow in there, too. Yellow hair curling around open palms. A face spattered with freckles…a kind smile…and eyes filled with wonder…

What the hell is this? Instead of my life flashing before my eyes, I get a glimpse into some alternate café universe? I am getting really tired of all these question marks clogging up my brain. They're starting to spill out my ears.

Now I remember what's happening. In reality, I am falling from Hiccup's balcony. Just my luck. A fall from a two story building only lasts a few seconds. Have to land on my feet. My feet! Repositioning my body shouldn't be too hard. Okay, the awning repositioned my body for me. Now bend your knees. Roll after impact. Protect your head. In my mind, all of this happens in slow motion.

In reality, I execute a crappy front flip, strike the awning, and land in the bushes. I roll forward, my hands cupped behind my head. Simple enough. Easy as pie, easy as Hiccup after he's had a few drinks, easy as sliding my—

I'm interrupted by darkness. Warm and thick. It hugs me and won't let go. Please, please, please, let go! Darkness is hot. Heavy hands holding me down. I think of the time Pitch was arrested. I felt hot and heavy when he stabbed me. But that was an accident. This is an accident, too. Or maybe I wanted to fall?

I don't know. Whatever. I just need to rest now. Sleep and dream about the darkness. Back at my apartment, I curl up in the cold sheets. Alone. Just like I do every night. When I fall asleep, my arm draped over the side of the bed, the darkness reaches up and grabs my hand.

Counting is hard when you're unconscious. I'm not sure how long I've been asleep. My eyes snap open. I gasp. Lungs are deflated balloons inside my chest. Where am I? There are green leaves all around me. The bushes at the bottom of the apartment building. Oh yeah, I fell. Clutching a fistful of dirt, I try to stand. Wow. That really hurt. The pain is barely tangible. It's slow. Prickling in my arms and legs. Someone is stabbing me with hypodermic needles. It's fast. Pain slipping through my veins.

The wall is rough. I close my hands against it. Holy crap, that fall was just…wow. I guess the awning broke my fall. Landing on my feet really worked. Bones shake inside my ankles. Take a deep breath and hope for the best.

I lean against the wall for what feels like forever. Breathing hard and trying not to pass out again. Blood drips down my face. It's sticky, kind of sweet. All at once, I realize how hungry I am and how much that hurt and I want to cry again.

This is just great. A perfect end to a perfect week. My ankle feels broken and patches of skin start to burn. Turning purple beneath my ripped clothing. For some odd reason, the prevailing feeling is hunger. Seriously. I feel like I haven't eaten in weeks. Blood is sticky sweet but it's not enough. So hungry…

Someone puts a grape tomato in my mouth.

Taste it on my tongue. Sticky sweet. I don't really like vegetables. My dad used to tease me about that. He'd stick steamed carrots on a fork and dangle them in front of my face. Then I would stick out my tongue and he'd laugh.

I try to laugh. Smiling around the tomato is hard.

My old man was a real jokester.

There was that one time in tenth grade when I thought I knocked up my high school girlfriend. She was a pretty girl. Kind of oblivious, the type to trip over her own feet. But she was beautiful. She called me at two am. All snot-nosed and puffy-eyed. I could almost hear the tears dripping down the receiver. She cried and tapped the stick against phone.

"It says positive, Jack! Positive!"

"Ok, hold on! I'll be right over!"

Sneaking out was easy. The window creaked when I opened it. Air hot and heavy, like darkness and blood. She lived in my neighborhood, so I ran to her house and threw rocks at her bedroom window. It was a tough climb. Scaling the massive oak tree in my bare feet. She slept on the second floor. Balancing on a branch, I threw pebbles at the glass. Trying to be like Romeo.

"What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is the sun."

That's right, I can be romantic. And my deep dark secret is hidden beneath piles of Shakespeare plays. Days in the hospital allowed me to read nonstop. Heavy head falling into act one, scene two of Hamlet.

My girlfriend opened the window. I climbed in and hugged her half to death.

I'm so sorry…it's all right. That is what I wanted to say. But I didn't.

A few minutes of silence. Fingers gripped my shirt. I looked at the stick and started laughing. She read it wrong. She wasn't pregnant. We kissed. I laughed again and she punched me in the shoulder. What a night.

My father caught me sneaking back into the house. He pulled the truth out of me. Then he laughed. Dad never let me live that down. From that day on, he introduced me as "his son who almost knocked up this pretty girl next door". Thanks, Dad.

"Dad? I'm pretty sure I'm not your dad."

Wait, what? A voice breaks my train of thought. Sends it off the rails. Someone is talking to me. The same person that pushed the grape tomato into my mouth.

I hear it again. "Hey, are you ok? Come on, look at me. Your eyes are open, but you can't see me, I guess? Helllloooo. Look at me."

Geez, she talks a lot. She…yeah, it's a girl. The light voice, liquid sunlight poured into my ears. There's a slight lisp. But it's cute, really cute. Memories flash. There was a girl below the balcony. Her hair was golden thread that weaved through her arms and fingers. Into the opening in her purse, into the shopping bag she held. The bag was full of vegetables. She looked up at me with wide green eyes.

And then I fell.

And now I'm here.

And the person talking to me is that girl.

My vision clears. The gorgeous girl that locked herself out of her apartment stands before me. I'm halfway down the wall. Knees bent awkwardly.

"Hey…hey, you're ok. Everything's gonna be ok." Nothing but green eyes and a smile. Her voice makes me tired.

I manage a small smile. The tomato falls out of my mouth. Lands just between my toes. I'm barefoot. That's…weird. But looking at the girl, I realize that she's barefoot, too.

My throat is scratchy. "No…shoes."

She laughs. "Oh, yeah! It's like we're twins." A nose brushes mine. She's close enough for the freckles to jump off her cheeks. Maybe they'll land on mine. "But you're ok, right? Should I call 911?"

"No…I'm fine. Just a little banged up." I blink and move my nose against hers. "Wow, you're pretty, blondie."

Another laugh. The pale cheeks turn pink. "All right, Casanova, you need to lie down or something. Here, let me help you up."

"No, no, I'm supposed to help you. You're locked out, remember?" I slowly shake my head. The tomato rolls beneath my toes. "Oh yeah, why'd you put a…a tomato in my mouth?"

Blondie shrugs. "You said you were hungry."

"I did?"

"Yeah. You've been mumbling to yourself for quite a while. Now that I think about it, you were half-conscious so what you said probably has no meaning whatsoever. But it was a good tomato, wasn't it?"

Her positivity is funny. It makes me want to laugh. But everything hurts right now, so I'll refrain. "Didn't really eat it, so I couldn't tell you. But it feels nice. Soft and smooth."

Before I can stop myself, I've got my fingers on hers. Aligning our pinkies. Her face turns red.

"Uh, why don't I help you inside? I mean, it's my fault that you fell." Awkward giggle. She twirls a strand of hair. Those fingers have my DNA on the surface. I hope my cells are scattered throughout those golden locks.

"You didn't push me. But I'll take you up on that offer." I raise my hand. A small part of me is afraid that she won't reach back. But she does.

Those soft fingers grab my hand and pull me to my feet. Now I have pieces of her on my skin. I'll never wash this hand again. She tugs me along. Out of the bushes, onto the grass. It's stiff and wet. Her toes curl around the blades.

Is that a smile on her face? A brief second of stillness, fingers gripping my wrist as her lips curve into a grin. Like she wants to stand out here forever. Those toes finally let go of the grass. We walk slowly. My ankle isn't broken, but it must be sprained. I limp beside her. She talks quickly.

She fills out an invisible questionnaire. No one gives her questions. She answers them all on her own. I'm not interviewing her, but she keeps talking anyways.

I learn a few things about her. Her name is Rapunzel. A strange name in my opinion. Straight out of a fairytale. I've always wanted to believe in fairytales. To sit in an old library, reading books with yellowed pages. But I'm a surgeon. I can't believe in miracles.

Rapunzel won't tell me her last name. That's all right. I don't tell her my last name, either. There is this unspoken enigma between us. We don't even know each other. She keeps her distance, a few feet in front of me at all times. I wish Hiccup was here to analyze her body language. He's good at that stuff. Every so often, he takes over Astrid's Netflix account and watches BBC's Sherlock. So now he's an "expert" when it comes to reading people. Whenever I fold my hands behind my head, he accuses me of acting superior. Stupid Hiccup. I'm no Sherlock, but Rapunzel looks nervous. Holding fast to her bag as she goes up the stairs.

She stops at the top. "You still feeling all right? You're moving kinda slow."

"I did fall two stories."

Nervous laugh. "Yeah, I saw."

I lean against the rail and give her this look. A what-the-hell-are-you-hiding look. The complete change in attitude is making me nervous. And I never get nervous…seriously, I don't. So when her lips curve into this crooked smile that's about to fall off her face, I know something is up. I think I scare her.

"What's up with you, blondie?"

She's against the wall, holding the bag between her legs. "What do you mean?"

I watch the bag. "You look nervous, that's all. Five minutes ago, you were all cheerful and now you're…scared?"

This time, Rapunzel's laugh is easily confused with shattering glass. "Scared? No, I am definitely not scared of you. I have a frying pan in my purse." Before I can comprehend, she keeps going. "I just hear Taylor Swift's 'I Knew You Were Trouble' resounding in my ears."

This is some kind of cautious flirting. Has to be. Her body leaning against the wall, hourglass-shaped and occasionally shifting. Because the wind is strong and the staircase is outside. Thin plastic is wrapped around thin wrists. She fingers the plastic and fingers the….holy crap, my mind is always in the gutter.

I take a deep breath. "Seriously, Rapunzel. Am I making you uncomfortable? I'm getting this vibe from you."

And it's freaking me out because no one ever feels nervous around me, because no one ever knows I'm there. I don't say this last part. But I think it. Words tumbling around inside my skull.

"I'm sorry. I'm just…" She sighs. "Look, I'm not really supposed to be here."

"Did you forget to pay rent? Anger the bitchy landlord?"

"No…" Wow, she looks adorable when she bites her lip. "I paid my rent. Actually, I paid my rent for the next three months."

Now this is confusing. "Why would you do that?"

Rapunzel sighs again. "Ok, just sit down. This is going to take a while. And it would be really great if you could listen to my story. I haven't talked to anyone in a long time."

"Uh, sure." I sit down on the top step. Hear the rough sound of cotton sliding down the wall. Her skirt is long and pink. Brushing her knees, tucked between her thighs. Her sweatshirt is pink, too. Looks so soft, I want to climb inside.

Green eyes are large behind shaking hands. She pulls the sleeves over her fingertips and starts her story. Like the old Alice in Wonderland quote, "Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end; then stop". Told you I was a literary.

Her voice is soft. "So, like I said before, my name is Rapunzel. Can't tell you my last name, sorry. It's just a personal thing. My last name reminds me of my mother. So I leave it out. Anyways, I guess you could call me a runaway. I know, it sounds stupid, since I'm an adult and everything, but it's true. I promise." A small smile, gaze fixed on the concrete. Teeth tug at the pink sleeve. "Back home, I was like a hostage. No wait, not a hostage. I mean, my mother isn't a monster. She just didn't let me…I didn't let myself leave the house. Time goes by so slowly when you're alone. Sometimes, it goes by fast. I threw my calendars away, because it didn't even matter. And I was so lonely, so I—I'm sorry." Green eyes are full of tears. She wipes them away. Trying to laugh, droplets on her lips.

I'm there before I can stop myself. Bare soles shuffle across the ground. Our toes are almost touching. "Don't apologize. Come on, put a smile on. Like they say at McDonald's."

She sniffs. "I've never eaten at McDonalds. I just see the commercials. They change slogans a lot."

"We'll have to go, then. Get you a Happy Meal."

I go to grab her hand. Gentle approach. I remember Hiccup's words. When I asked him why he took in Toothless, he turned away from me. It's just a cat. But it means so much more. "I looked at him, and I saw myself. That's why I brought him home, Jack."

Now I am looking at Rapunzel and I understand what Hiccup meant. She is just as alone as I am. My fingers wrap around hers. Hesitant at first, just like her. And then she latches on and falls against my chest. Blonde pieces in my eyes. There is so much hair falling across my shoulders. Her body, her face. Enveloped by gold, we sit on the stairs in silence.

Tears soak through my scrubs. I'm still wearing them. Rounded fingernails grip the fabric. Slowly, I feel her start to relax.

Her voice comes from beneath the pile of hair. "W-What kind of a doctor are you?"

"So you finally noticed the scrubs."

She shrugs. "Kinda hard not to notice. So are you a doctor or are you playing dress-up?"

Playing dress-up? Oh my God, she thinks I'm gay. Sure, Hiccup and I roughhouse and I do some things around him that might be interpreted as flirting, but I'm totally straight. Totally. Great, now my inner voice is talking like a valley girl.

I pull her off my chest and look straight into those green eyes. "Listen, sweetheart, I do not play dress-up. I know what you're thinking. 'Wow, look at this guy. He's so attractive; women and men must run after him.' But, unfortunately for all of the gay men out there, I am a sexy, straight surgeon."

It's silent for a second. Rapunzel raises her eyebrows. She rolls her eyes in that Hiccup way. Starts pulling at her hair in the signature Merida fashion. And her lips curve like Astrid's. Probably because I just came off as a male chauvinist pig. What is she, a mix of all my friends?

"A sexy, straight surgeon? Did your fall make you like this, or are you always this cocky?"

Cock. She said cock. I feel a smile coming on. A section of my brain is lighting up. The section fluent in sexual innuendoes.

Attempt that "smolder" again. The one the janitor taught me. "Well, speaking of cocks—"

Wait, what's with that face she's making?

Her face instantly reddens. But it's different. Not the shy blush of a schoolgirl, but the angry red of a slapped face. A pinched cheek, a bloody bruise. Her eyes are wide with…terror? I struck a nerve. Something deep inside. Strings all tied up inside a piano. All I did was say a little joke, but now I'm regretting it. Regretting it more than anything. Because the look on her face is one of pain. Fear twisted into knots. Maybe it recalls a memory? I had a patient once, a delirious young woman who was beaten to a pulp by her husband. She took one look at me and screamed. Apparently, my eyes were like his. She kept yelling, "His eyes, his eyes! My God, his eyes!" They gave her to a female doctor. Her face is Rapunzel's face. My one comment makes her cringe for some unknown reason. I am so stupid.

She starts backing away. "Okay, t-that's enough for me. I…I can't believe I cried and let you…" She shakes her head. "Look, I have to go. I'm sorry you fell, but I don't know you and I'm scared enough already. So I'll go get the landlord for you, but that's it. I'll be leaving now."

Wait. Don't leave. I'm tired and my ankle hurts and to be honest I feel like I'm going to puke all over you and I want you to stay. Please stay. I'm sorry.

None of this comes out. All I do is reach for her arm. "Rapunzel…I was just kidding."

"That's what they all say."

There aren't any words. It's all blank. Hiccup rolls his pencil across empty pages. Merida stares at an empty target, angry with herself. Because she's missed every shot. I've seen those two at their worst. But it took time. Astrid punches empty walls and screams. It took even longer to see her hit the bottom. When it's dark and you're alone, you whisper things into your pillow. I know what my friends whisper into their pillows. But it took time. Lots and lots of time to reach that point. And now there's this girl. A stranger to me. I guess she's a runaway; her mother was some kind of warden. Facts are unchecked. Truth unknown.

And yet, I think I am seeing her at her worst. This isn't how things are supposed to work. Then again, I am a doctor. My job is to defy the natural. Keep dead hearts beating. Reconnect the broken, mend the torn. Nature tells me this is wrong. I shouldn't be seeing her like this. Nature tells people many things.

It tells Hiccup what kind of person he should be.

It tells Merida how to dress and who to love.

It tells Astrid what she shouldn't be able to do.

It whispers to me, too. Tells me that I can't get close to people. Remaining invisible is the right thing to do. Don't get involved. Too late, I am already involved. One hundred percent. I can be Rapunzel's friend. Give her a shoulder to cry on. No matter how strange and cold it is. Just watch me.

Taking a deep breath, I lie spread-eagled on the ground. Face buried in the concrete. "Look at me, Rapunzel. I am completely at your mercy. Take out that frying pan, beat me to death. I won't care."

"W-What are you doing?"

"Giving you control. I don't know you, but I'm guessing that isn't something you've had a lot of. So, do whatever you want. Kick me, punch me, call the cops. I don't care."

Hear her back into the wall. That was loud. I hope she isn't hurt. She gasps. "Why are you doing this?!"

"I don't know!" Seriously, I don't. "I'm just trying to say I'm sorry!"

"But this is so extreme!"

"I'm an extreme person!" We're both yelling now. I'm inhaling dust down here. "Now do what you want, Rapunzel! You're in charge here! I'm just some jerky guy that made a stupid comment!"

"What I want…"

Each word is stretched out. Dragged across the space between us. I turn my head. Her toes are there. Curling and uncurling in the dust. Newborn flowers do the same thing. She stands for a little while. Nothing but silence. It's still early. Hiccup's apartment is probably still full of sleeping bodies.

The longest minute of my life occurred yesterday. Walking down the long white hall. This minute is a close second. Watching her toes is soothing. Calloused and pink, they bend into each other. Pinky toe wearing a gold ring, a tiny sun etched on the surface. She is so close to me. Then she kneels. I try really hard not to see up her skirt. So I close my eyes.

She laughs hollowly when I do so. The kind of laugh that comes after a thunderstorm. You go out, carrying a metal umbrella. Maybe you're leaving my corner café. You're calm. Umbrella raised over your head. Lightening scars the clouds. The sky likes to harm itself. Walking back to your car, you look composed. White streaks light the entire city. Flash bangs thrown over your head. When you get to your car, you slam the door shut and throw the umbrella into the back. You survived. Walking with a metal umbrella was stupid and you were scared as shit, but you lived. So you laugh. Just like Rapunzel.

Fingernails are soft on my cheek. "What I want is for you to be genuine."

Keep my eyes shut. "So I'm genuine because I didn't look?"

"No. You're genuine because you saw me when I needed it most. You don't even know me and you told me to take control. No one's ever told me that before." She opens my eyes. Her face is drenched with tears. Sitting in her car, she realizes that she survived. Almost getting hit by lightning has that effect on people.

I laugh back at her. "Every chick deserves control. That's what my friend, Astrid, says. Except she doesn't say 'chick'. You know, it's demeaning to the matriarchy."

"You sound like a tumblr user."

"Trust me, I'm not. But my other friend is. You guys should chat." I sigh and roll onto my back. Geez, I could just fall asleep right here. I'm so tired and the pain is starting to settle in. "I'm guessing you had a lot of time to go on tumblr. That's why you ran away."

Fall back on her heels, tucking the skirt between her legs. Strands of blonde fall into her face. "Yes, I ran away because I had too much free time to go on tumblr."

She's sarcastic just like Hiccup.

"You don't have to explain. Seriously, just help me up the stairs and I'll never ask you about it again." My knuckles crack as I sit up. "And I'll never make any douchebag comments again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I fully intend to keep my promise. Rapunzel keeps hers. Our fingers barely touch. She leads me up the stairs. One step at a time. We reach the hallway. Knowing that it isn't long and white makes me happy.

She won't let me hold the door open for her. Her eyes survey the corridor. A bunch of black doors line the walls. There is a fire extinguisher in a glass case. Not much else.

"You live on this floor?"

"Technically, no. My friend lives here. I just visit often."

All at once, I remember why I fell off the balcony in the first place. "Oh yeah, shouldn't we go up to your apartment first? You're locked out."

Rapunzel shakes her head. "No, no, it's fine. I'll just wake the landlord. That's what I should have done in the first place."

"But then you wouldn't have met me." My smile is kinder this time. Gentle approach. She's just like Toothless. Green eyes and all.

She allows herself a brief moment of happiness. I see it on her face. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

We're at the door before I can even blink. Give it a knock, wait a nanosecond and then knock again. I hope I am really annoying Hiccup right now. I scream into the door. "Hey, did someone order a male stripper? I'm here for a Hiccup Haddock the Third?"

Rapunzel giggles behind me. But then her laughter fades. She's biting her lip again, eyes shifting back and forth. What is with her?

"You nervous about meeting my friends?"

"No…I just thought I should tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"Why I flipped out on the stairs. Cause I'm really sorry about it. Really, I am." She twirls her hair with one finger, clutches the bag with the others. It's like she's paranoid or something. Always looking for the exit.

"You don't have to explain. That's in the past." I've learned not to dwell on the past. Because time moves so slowly for me, I'm already stuck there for a longer period of time than most people. I still hold on to Pitch, though. And to the patients I have lost.

Rapunzel shakes her head. "I know, but you deserve to know. You've been so kind to me. Heck, you fell off a balcony trying to help me."

I turn away from the door. Thankfully, there is no sound of movement from inside. Lazy Hiccup. He's probably wrapped around Astrid right now. Asleep and dreaming about dragons.

"All right. Shoot."

Her shoulders shake when she breathes. "Ok. It's just, what you said. That line. It reminded me of someone. That's what my mother's boyfriend used to say to me. That was his cue, if you would. A seemingly silly remark, but I knew what came after it. That's why you scared me." She stares at me for what feels like forever. Once again, I cannot speak. She bows her head. "So yeah, I just thought you should know. It wasn't your fault. You were just joking. But it meant something more to me. How could you have known? I'm sorry."

Before I can answer, the door opens. I turn away from Rapunzel for a split second and she seems to disappear. Hiccup stands on the threshold. Toes half on the tile, half on the carpet.

"Jack? Your yelling woke me up, but I didn't think…" He looks me up and down. "Look at you! You're bleeding. Did something happen?"

I'm still dazed. Rapunzel's words hit me hard. I'm looking around, but she's gone. When did she walk away? When the door opened? Before it opened?

"Jack! Did something happen?"

Hiccup's voice makes me flinch. I look at him, feeling that creeping sensation in my legs. Pinpricks burning on my fingertips.

"Answer me, Jack! Did. Something. Happen?"

"No shit, Sherlock." And then I collapse into his arms.

Falling unconscious twice in one day really sucks. Falling off a balcony really sucks, too. My luck has never been good. I see Pitch in my dreams, sitting behind a witness stand, sitting behind a sheet of glass. The phone is heavy in my hands. Black plastic that will never talk back. Expecting it to grab my hand is even more stupid. My shaking fingers render it a heartbeat. But it feels fake and I want to throw it away.

Pitch tells me not to go. Handcuffs rattle against the tabletop. I have to hang up. Darkness creeps into my chest. Hollow cavity filled with conflict. Because I can't decide what to do and my heart is sputtering love blood. I feel so cold. So dark. Then again, nothing goes better than cold and dark.

"Jack, don't hang up. Please?"

Sorry, Pitch. I have to go.

There was a time that I would stay, but things are different now. We used to sit on the couch and watch TV. And you would throw a blanket over me because I looked cold. But not anymore.

My eyes pop open. I'm in a room painted black. A fan spins overhead. Bars of light sneaking through the blinds. One touches an easel. There's a half-finished painting on it. I'm in Hiccup and Astrid's bedroom. The sheets are all tangled up. They sure got crazy last night. I take a deep breath, remembering how I got here.

Oh, that's right. A fall off the balcony, a chance encounter with that girl. Rapunzel. Wait, where is she?

She vanished into nothing when Hiccup opened the door. Almost as if she had never been there. Rapunzel is real, I know it. Groaning, I run my hands down my face. Great, now I'm going to spend all day questioning if the whole thing was a hallucination. Like when you're a child and you swear that you saw Santa Claus. Nothing but milk drops in the glass. The slight shaking of a vase, a dark shadow. You know that he walked by, but then again, you don't. I believed in Santa when I was little. To be honest, I believed in everything. The Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, the Sandman. But I never believed in Jack Frost. That useless character that my mother loved to talk about. "Jack Frost is nipping at your nose! Look, it's all red!" And then there was the whole "Jack Frost shares your first name, sweetie. Isn't that cool?" argument that I couldn't care less about.

Now that I'm older, I'm more like him than I thought.

I roll over. This is Hiccup's pillow. I'd know it anywhere. Soft scents of paint and oil. Sea salt all mixed up with it. It makes me calm. I press my face against it and sleep some more.

The pillow is wet when I wake up again. Can't tell if it's sweat or tears.

Walking to the bathroom with a limp is problematic. Pieces of clothing are scattered all over the floor. Astrid's flannel shirt and mini skirt bunched up beneath the dresser. Hiccup's V-neck wrinkled and a little torn. Astrid is a beast. I've seen her fight. If that reflects her skills in the bedroom even the slightest…I envy Hiccup. Based on all the teeth marks on Hiccup's shirt, she must be a biter. I pick up a pair of lace panties with my toes. Let's assume these are Astrid's, but you never know.

This'll be great. They're stuffed into my back pocket as I wash my face. The sink is just like the shower. Slick and the water comes out burning hot. Not that I mind. Numb fingers can't feel anything.

Reflections are always deceiving. They flip things around and spit them back into your face. Self-portraits are the same way. At least, that's what Hiccup told me as he threw away an empty canvas. My reflection looks empty, too. Same pale face that gets me the occasional question of, "Are you a vampire?" No, dumbass, my skin doesn't sparkle. Same blue eyes, same white hair. It all gets me something. Stupid questions, pitiful remarks about premature hair greying, Hiccup's comments about my snowflake-shaped irises.

When he's in one of his artistic moods, he'll pin me down and sketch my eyes. Knees on my shoulders, tongue stuck between his teeth.

There's new stuff. Bandages around my head and under my chin. Purple bruises and a swollen eye. Now my outside finally matches my inside. A hollow laugh. Come on, Jack, don't revert back to an emo kid in pencil thin jeans. Even though Pitch liked me that way.

No. Stop. I shake my head and look away from the mirror. This is stupid. A light bulb flickers, which surprises me because Hiccup is always on top of things. Maybe I'm not the only one with problems. Sighing, I decide to suck it up. Stop acting like a baby, a weakling, a fag.

Those three things are just a few examples of what Mr. Haddock calls his son. Can't believe I just named them. The urge to smash my fist into the mirror is unbearable. So I leave.

A red frizzball attacks me when I open the door. "You're awake! Oh ya dobber, don't go scarin' us like that again!" Feel her pinching my cheeks, pulling at my arms. "Looks like you've been tummel yer monkees."

"What? You still drunk, Merida?"

Through the red curls, I see her eyes narrow. Then she punches me in the arm. No wait, that was Astrid. I recognize her fist. Just the right amount of boniness and tough skin. They're ganging up on me.

"No, she isn't drunk. She's upset! And so am I!"

I raise my eyebrows. "You're worried about me, Astrid?"

"No, I'm pissed! What the hell happened to you?"

"Not much. Just fell off a balcony." Her lace panties are bunched up in my hand. "By the way, nice underwear."

Her head is literally about to explode. I'm a lizard that just bit a dragon.

"Jackson Overland, you are asking for death." Cracking knuckles, flaring nostrils. "I will ground and pound you into dust."

"By all means, please pin me to the ground with your voluptuous thighs."

She does her signature MMA scream. "You did not just say that!"

"I really did."

"Objectifier of women!"

"Maneater!"

Hiccup jumps between us. "Ok guys, just relax. Did anyone catch the whole 'fell of a balcony' line? No? Just me? All right then."

More red curls smother my face. "Did you really fall off a balcony, Jack?"

Astrid snorts. "Of course he did. You can tell just by looking at him. The practically broken ankle, swollen eye, and overall shittiness that radiates off him."

"Thanks for summing that up." Hiccup pats her on the arm. "All right, let's just give the guy some room." Green eyes turn to me. "So, how are you feeling? You've been asleep for a few hours."

"I'm fine. Kinda sore, but that doesn't matter."

Hiccup starts to say, "Of course it ma—" but Merida's massive curls swallow us whole.

"You feel fine, that's great to hear!" Her arm is slung around me, fingers gripping my shoulder. "Let's celebrate with a pint or two."

Hiccup rolls his eyes. "I think we've all had enough pints to last the year, you raging alcoholic. Let's just have an awkward celebratory group hug."

Whenever something good happens, we come together. Uncomfortably hugging and pretending to be annoyed even though we secretly love it.

Our responses are the same. Going from Astrid to Merida to me.

"I'd rather give myself a hammerfist."

"Oh, all right. But no wandering hands, Jack. Keep your fingers above my waist!"

"Wow, guys. This is so magical. I might just tear up."

We huddle and hug each other tightly. Planning our next play. O's and X's are drawn in black crayon. Because we're not mature enough for pens and pencils. On the other hand, we're too old for our own good. Lagging our feet and wishing we could play with Crayola's again. Now we draw with scalpels.

Someone wriggles in between us. Tooth stands in the center, her face red. "Mind if I join in? I like hugs."

I start laughing. "Of course, Toothy. Come here, I bet my chin will fit perfectly on top of your head."

"No you don't, Jack." Merida grabs her by the arm. "The only chin that touches that beautiful head is mine."

There's giggling, blushing, feet tangling as we trip over the other. A little bit of pain from my sprained ankle. Warm feelings dripping like honey. We get stuck in it. Never let go. Never get out. Stuck inside a jar of sickening sweetness. It cracks and spills across the countertop. Spicy red curls that taste like the hot sauce Merida puts on her eggs. Bitter yellow bangs, razor sharp and stale, but slowly softening. Just add water. Multi-colored strands pouring down my neck. Hot and sugary. And then there's the brown hair that bends against my cheek. Saltwater taffy, sweet on my tongue. We are a human confectionary.

We leave the kitchen. Bodies still warm, faces still blushing. In that immediate closeness, everyone feels something. Intimacy, love. Maybe a feeling that has never been there before. Breaking away from Hiccup is hard. Of course, I'll never say that. I just give him a sloppy dog kiss on his cheek and laugh as he rolls his eyes.

Tooth calls us over to the balcony. She points out the visible tear in the awning.

"Good thing it's made of fabric. You could have broken all your teeth." Her small frame leans over the edge. Small frames masking her eyes. Seriously, she's going to fall if she doesn't back up.

"Stop leaning over so far." I grab her hand. "You're gonna break your face, ankle biter."

Tooth looks at me over the top of her glasses. "Ankle biter?"

"Yeah. You're short. You're a dentist. Makes sense."

Hiccup is busy looking at the ripped awning. "Just accept it, Tooth. It's better than my nickname."

"What's your nickname?"

"…Tiger Toes."

The blush on his face is so adorable, I want to pinch his cheeks. Kidding. Giving him that nickname was the best decision of my life. Because he only has five toes and the irony kills me. And he reminds me of a cat with his awkwardness and overall snippiness.

Overall cattiness. Pretty punny, huh?

Tooth leans against the railing, laughing until tears roll down her cheeks. Wow, dentists have really nice teeth. She looks so pretty when she smiles. Almost as pretty as Rapunzel. Wait, Rapunzel! Where did she go?

Astrid cuts off my train of thought. "So are you going to tell us what happened to you or what, Jack?"

"Yeah, Jack, how 'bout it? Your little Tiger Toes is dying to know why you front flipped off a balcony."

"Geez Hic, your sarcasm is a little much. But I'll tell you since Tiger Toes wants to know."

So I tell them. When I get to the part about Rapunzel, Hiccup raises his eyebrows. "I might have missed something, but I'm pretty sure no one has moved into this building in months."

"Are you sure? She literally just moved in. You're positive you haven't seen a hot blonde walking around?"

"Only one." He glances at Astrid.

His prize is a punch in the arm. "I better be the only one, Buttercup."

So many nicknames. He's so lucky. Nicknames mean so many things. Astrid calls him Angel Eyes when she wants to have sex with him. He'll be on her like a pit-bull on a T-bone. Not that he's much of a pit-bull, more like a basset hound. Sugar Puss is used to irritate him. Poking at the chinks in his armor. He calls her one name, Firefly. He calls me nothing.

Neither of them know who Rapunzel is. She wasn't a dream, I know it. But they just tell me to drop it and get some more rest. I get a few more relieved punches. Smiles, chuckles, hands ruffling my hair. Hiccup grabs me from behind and plops his chin on my head for half a second.

Now he's gone.

Merida puts a hand on my shoulder. Lingering there just long enough. "Come on. Hiccup will make you something to eat."

I laugh at the fact that she doesn't offer. Hiccup will do it. Of course. Hunger is still there. So maybe I'll go inside and share a turkey leg with Astrid. Yeah, maybe I will. The taste of a grape tomato still fresh on my tongue.

Thin slices of turkey on whole wheat bread. Mayonnaise is spread on thick. Not really a leg, but whatever. I thank Hiccup between mouthfuls.

He doesn't appreciate this. "Chew with your mouth closed."

Merida waves him off. "Leave him alone, Hiccup. If a man wants to chew with his mouth open, let him be."

"Says the girl who's chewing with her mouth wide open."

"So?"

"You're not a man, Merida."

"Well I sure ain't a lady!"

These are our conversations. Don't judge. No, wait, you can judge if you want. I just won't give a shit.

Back to lunch/brunch/meal-to-heal-my-broken-insides. Tooth lectures about how everyone should own carrots. They are natural teeth cleaners, you know. Astrid and Hiccup have synchronized their eye rolls.

Clouds are motionless as the day moves on. Astrid has a fight tonight. Some chick with bulging muscles and swollen knuckles. Astrid jokes that her opponent could use Hiccup to beat me to death. I've always wanted to be a piñata. How nice. Days are lazy. Especially in this apartment. The A/C breaks and Merida and I strip for Tooth and Hic. They throw pillows at our stomachs. Then Astrid walks in with her sports bra hovering over her rock-hard abs and we are all put to shame.

Later in the day, it's a girl's afternoon out. Merida's hair is frizzing even more than usual. Tooth groans as her glasses fog.

While they discuss girly plans, Hiccup and I retreat to the bedroom, the coldest place in the apartment for some reason. He's in one of his artistic moods again. I know what's coming. Knees dig into my shoulder blades. Soft fabric of his pajamas on my chest. If I could rip them off in a no-homo way, I would. Being handsy is my way of conveying emotion. I touch people to remind myself that I won't go right through them.

Pink tongue gets lodged between white teeth. He draws my beat up face in his sketchbook. Crumpled pages circle my head. A fibrous flower crown. Skinny ass on my abdomen, trunk towering over me. He could be a tree if he stood still enough. Shaggy hair sits atop a loose head. Bending in so many different directions I'm surprised it hasn't fallen off. He moves this way when he is sketching. When he's sketching me.

Astrid kicks the door open, keys dangling from her fingers. I see her through my peripherals.

"Gay."

That's all she has to say.

Hiccup rolls his eyes. "Don't care. And stop breaking my concentration."

"I just have to grab some clothes. We're going to the mall."

"Sounds fun." He never looks away from his drawing. "You taking the smart car?"

"No. My motorcycle needs to be ridden."

I watch his fingers grip the pencil. Don't scribble all over the page in annoyance, Hic. Relax. Gritted teeth will have to do. "Three people on a motorcycle…sounds…safe. You're playing a very dangerous game, you know."

"Don't care." Her grin is toothier than a dentist's office. "Besides, one of them can sit in the sidecar."

"Whatever. Just be careful." Grip softens. Strokes become more even. "And don't forget to go to Hot Topic. You have to return that Game of Thrones shirt. It's too big on you."

"I know. Where's the bag?"

He sighs. "Where it's been for the past week, under the bed. Receipt's in the top drawer."

"With all of your boxers and assorted Speedos you never want me to mention."

I give her a mental high-five as Hiccup blushes. She drops to the floor, searching beneath the bed. Something hisses. A black cat darts out.

She pokes it in the stomach. "Your cat's finally come out of hibernation, Hic."

"Give him a break. He's been tired lately."

There's Toothless. Sleepy and ticked that Astrid woke him up. He bites at her finger before rubbing against her hand. Cats are bipolar, I swear. He reminds me of a used shirt. Jumbled up and waiting in the corner of the laundry basket before you pull it out and guiltily throw it in the washer.

Toothless weaves between her legs. Astrid gets dressed quickly. Skin tight jeans show off her thighs. A crop top shows off her abs.

"Ok, I'm outta here. Love you."

Hiccup lets those words simmer for a bit. Resonating inside his heart, his skull. They still get to him. I know it.

"Love you, too, Astrid."

Minutes of aloofness turn to three seconds of passion as they kiss goodbye. Dragons meeting in the air. Tails entwine. Tails are wet tongues tangling in the still air. The lack of A/C makes it even hotter to watch. But I'm a spectator, so I feel cold. Even with Hiccup sitting on top of me, I am cold.

A pinky toe comes to mind. One encircled by a golden ring. Rapunzel's ring with the tiny sun on it. She keeps floating to the forefront of my mind. My pond is frozen, but under the ice things are moving. Water carries things away. Rapunzel comes up to the surface. Just below the sheet of ice. She keeps knocking on it, trying to break through.

Not yet, blondie. First, I have to find you.

Astrid leaves with Merida and Tooth. I know that those two are walking hand in hand. Their interactions are so entrancing. Last night was proof enough. Poor Mer, her mother keeps pressuring her to find the perfect guy. I should listen to her problems. It's something I rarely do. Most of the time, she's the one listening to me. Taking her out for coffee would be good. A late night and a gory movie would be more fun. And she would like that more. Yeah, I'll do that sometime.

My thoughts wander as Hiccup sketches my bruised face. He's still on top of me. I'm still calling it no-homo. He finishes and throws the sketchbook aside, a pained grin on his face.

"Finally."

Pencils roll across the sheets. Knees roll off my shoulder blades. We doze next to each other. I grab a pencil and start poking him with the eraser. Right in the nose. It turns into a game of "I'm not touching you" and then he's drawing shapes on my stomach with a Sharpie.

"Astrid is right. This is so gay."

He rolls his eyes again. "Don't be a prude. Just accept it."

I'm suddenly alarmed. "Accept what?"

"That we're two straight guys lying in a bed. That's it." He grabs two pencils. "We're like these pencils here. So straight that you'd have to snap us in half to make us bend the other way. And yet, we can lie side by side in the same pencil box and think nothing of it."

His face is so serious and the pencils are awkwardly leaning against each other. This is too much. I press a pillow against my face and start laughing.

Hiccup's laughing, too. Hands keep drawing. Feel the velvet tip across my skin. Around my belly button, tracing my happy trail. Let's guess the shape.

A squiggle?

Wrong.

A star?

Wrong.

A smiley face, a heart, a dog, a cat?

Wrong.

Oh well, guess I'll find out later. When I wake up. Because I am falling asleep again. Hiccup passes out on my stomach. The marker is probably bleeding into the sheets. Leaking, reminding me of a drippy faucet. I'll wrap myself up in a cocoon and try to remember Rapunzel. Her wide green eyes, soft smile, golden hair. She was real. No one can tell me otherwise. I'll find her. Hiccup will help me. We'll search the entire building and find her sitting in a fire escape. Bolted against the ancient brick with her feet hanging over. Not that she'll be bolted. No, she'll be free and curious, staring at me with a grocery bag in hand. Those bare feet will remind me of my missing shoes. And the golden toe ring will remind me of the sun.

Warm against my back. Rays slinking down my spine. I'll find her. Someway. Somehow. People do not simply disappear. Only dead people disappear. Rapunzel isn't dead. Rapunzel is hiding. I am sleeping beneath the ice with her.

I'll crack it and find her there. Eyes wide open. Just wait and see.


	3. Treatment Stage 2: Protect With Blankets

I am awoken by Hiccup's beeper. Buried deep in his pajama pants, I feel it against my cheek. Somehow, my face has ended up in his crotch. Guess I move around a lot when I sleep. We've been tangling like knots. Hiccup passed out of my stomach. Now he's sideways on the bed. We make a perfect right angle. I somersault away from those pants, hitting my head on the backboard. Bandages slide down my temple. Vibrations come from all angles. Impact of a human skull on a wooden board, internal buzzing of machines. Simple machines telling Hiccup that it is time to go to work. He takes these late shifts all the time. God knows why.

Thinking about a god makes me think of the moon. Because the moon looks like his face. When I was little, I used to whisper my prayers to the moon. Stupid, I know. But I saw a face up there. The Man in the Moon. And he was my god, my god that I no longer believe in.

A yawn makes me flinch. Hiccup stretches like a cat across the comforter. Rubbing his eyes and scratching at his stomach. It really is like watching a dragon emerge from hibernation. All heat and shedding scales. Except the scales are tiny brown hairs falling from his head.

Yeah, he sheds a lot. Not as bad as Merida, but still pretty bad. Auburn strands clogging up the drain. Astrid curses at him as she plunges her hand into the pipes.

Hiccup rolls off the bed.

"There's my alarm. Gotta get to work…hooray."

I smile. Let's push his buttons. "You signed up for these shifts, man."

He gives me that shut-the-hell-up look. There are many looks in his arsenal. "Thanks for reminding me, but nobody likes a smartass, Jack."

"Astrid does." That gets me borderline evil eyes. I have to explain. "She likes your ass and you're pretty smart. Thus, you have a smart ass."

Laughter as he shakes his head. "Smart because it stays away from you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh come on, I felt your face in my crotch." He rolls his eyes and starts pulling his scrubs out of the hamper. "Admit it, you can't resist all of this raw…nurseness."

The urge to rip my bandages in half is unbearable. "You're sick!"

"At least my birth certificate isn't an apology letter from a condom factory, unlike yours." His voice is as monotone as ever.

Ok, now we're getting personal. He wants to play? Let's play.

"Oh I'm sorry I didn't get that, I don't speak idiot."

"I'm already visualizing duct tape over your mouth, Jack."

"I'm visualizing you falling off a cliff!"

Back and forth. Back and forth. Comebacks turn to broken fits of laughter. Now we're laughing and throwing pillows at each other. Something that girls do at sleepovers. I really hope Astrid, Merida, and Tooth have another sleepover. Watching them have a pillow fight would just kill me. Literally kill me from blood loss. But not today. Right now, Hiccup is in the bathroom. We've had our daily dose of fun. Yes, arguing is fun for us. We've reached that point. Two pencils that don't mind snapping each other's point.

Hiccup's scrubs are dark blue. He waves goodbye and reminds me not to burn the apartment down.

"Astrid knows you can't make her fight, right?"

His nod is heavy. "Yep, I told her. She knows when I work." He flexes his invisible muscles. "And she knows that sickness never sleep. This nurse has pathogens to fight."

"Go, young warrior." I hold the door open and give him a salute. "Fight the good fight. Uphold your honor. We are Sparta."

We stare at each other for a solid minute. Then he grips my shoulder. Feeling a little dramatic today, Hic?

"Yes, we are Sparta." And then he's gone. That's that. Off to the hospital.

In fantasyland, he is going to save the world with his scalpel of truth. In reality, he is going to the hospital to sit in a rolling chair at a desk and occasionally give a sponge bath or two. Fun.

He leaves. I am alone. Sitting on the couch makes me restless. There is nothing good on TV. News anchors ramble about negatives things and throw all positivity out the window. The Kardashians live their useless lives. I watch Antique's Road Show for about five minutes before nodding off. No, I cannot fall asleep again. So I walk around. Tiptoe across the tile, jumping from square to square. Kitchen drawers are opened one by one. Forks and spoon scattered about. I turn a knife over in my hands before realizing what I'm doing. Thoughts are creeping into my head. Thoughts that scare me.

Metal glints in the sink. Water rushes over it. I am tempted to toss it into the disposal. But I don't. Keep walking. Don't think. There's a suspicious looking package in the fridge. All wrapped up in tin foil. Bits of frost fringe the edge. Hmm, the temperature must be too low in here. Another example of something broken that shouldn't be. Why is Hiccup falling behind on this stuff? He's a genius with tools.

My shrug makes my bones crack. Tin foil is very distracting. Barracudas swim towards shiny objects. Magpie's like gold watches and silver chains. I like tin foil. It always breaks my train of thought. It's heavy in my hands. And then it's open and a fork is entering its mystery contents. What the hell is this? Whatever. Who cares? Pieces of meat are tasteless on my tongue. Half of it is gone. I notice the sticky note on the foil. Hiccup's eye roll would be so appropriate right now. Neon yellow screams that this is Merida's special chunk of haggis. Her slanted handwriting is instantly recognizable:

Hiccup,

I knew one of my friends would realize how amazing haggis is. I made this super special piece for you to try. Don't be a sissy and back out on me!

Enjoy,

Merida

A winky face drawn in red marker ends the note. Holy crap. I just shoveled a buttload of sheep's stomach into my mouth. Hiccup's a moron for expressing interest in this stuff. I'm a moron for eating mystery meat. What's done is done. I'll pay for it later. By later, I mean now. Booze and turkey and mayonnaise and assorted animal organs mix inside my poor stomach. Being a surgeon suddenly seems like a blessing as I contemplate cutting myself open and removing the damn thing. I throw up in the sink. Wow, I am so graceful right now. It's such a surprise I don't have a girlfriend…not.

Glinting metal is covered with my puke. Haha, stupid knife. No one liked you, anyways. You tried to make me do things. Sick things that I don't want to think about. You and your sexy body that tried to find my inner masochist. Pointy fingers like Edward Scissorhands. Except you are not bumbling and adorable. You're evil. I hate you. But Pitch loved you. Loved you so much that he put you inside me and tried to make me accept it. Blood running down my shirt.

Thinking about Pitch makes me want to do one of two things. Ram my head into the cabinets until my eyes bleed or punch the knife until my fists are ribbons. I choose neither. Instead, I do the nice thing. Brush my teeth with the spare toothbrush that Hiccup bought just for me. Then I decide to clean the sink. It isn't hard. Pinpricked fingers are soaked through with blue soap. Bubbles swirl around the drain. Moving in their own little orbits and then falling into the black hole. The knife is thrown into the garbage.

No one liked it, anyways.

A day of doing nothing makes me even more tired. Lying on the couch, I sigh and drum my fingers on my stomach. Scrubs are itchy in the A/C-less room. This is ridiculous. Fire from the sun touching my forehead, making me hot. Ice from the freezer giving me goosebumps. This day is dragging by. And dragging me along with it.

I am not a graceful person. I am not a summer's day filled with ice pops and bikinis on the beach. I am a winter's night. Staring at the moon makes me nervous. When I roll my shoulders back, my bones pop. Fingers rarely touch warm flesh, unconscious patients feel stone cold. I need someone really bad. Either my desire is great or I want a horrible person. Both are fine with me. Maybe I should start a blog called "sexuallyrfrustratedJack". But my thoughts never revolve around shallow things. Parties and hot girls. Seriously, I swear. I am not your archetypal guy. I think about loneliness at 2 am and whether or not I actually came back from the dead. But I am still a guy, so sex is always there. Gentle sex that makes my heart beat like a hummingbird's. That will never come.

I am not your archetypal surgeon, either. Someone calls me in to perform an appendectomy. Those are simple, but the hospital is busy and they know how fast I work. I just shrug. My voice is professional as ever. This will be easy, but I still throw my phone against the couch. Come on, I'm tired and not in the mood and today is my day off!

Oh well.

Showers are difficult to enjoy in a rush. Water comes out burning hot. In and out in three minutes.

My trips to the hospital are never eventful. There is nothing to say. A white building filled with white halls and white rooms. People living and dying. Tears of joy as a little Timmy finally wakes up. Tears of sadness as Grandma Marge falls asleep forever. Sometimes, it's the other way around. And that makes me sick. I already feel like shit as I talk to the patient. The patient's frantic mother rocking back and forth beside me.

Geez, lady. Relax. It's a frickin' appendectomy.

I don't say that, obviously.

"There's no need to worry. I've performed thousands of these. It's a piece of cake. Haha." My laugh is so fake.

I complete the Laparoscopic surgery in under an hour. Done. In and out just like a shower. The patient will be discharged in less than twenty-four hours. But wait, there's more. I found a cist on the patient's ovary while I was removing the appendix. Ohhhh isn't this just time consuming? Have to snap a picture. Have to inform the right people.

"Who do you recommend as the gynecologist, Dr. Overland? Dr. Overland?"

It takes all my willpower not to pull my hair out. I throw out the first name that comes to mind. What name did I even say?

Ovarian cists are not my specialty. Sorry, not my division. There's no need to wait for the gyno. So I go back to the apartment.

By the time Astrid comes home, I am sitting on the couch in my boxers.

Her words fly with her shopping bags. Hitting the counter hard. "Hey, you look like shit."

"Thanks."

Blue eyes roll. "Come on, you know I'm just kidding."

"Yeah, yeah." Sighing, I crack my body. From my toes to my neck. "Merida and Tooth are missing."

"I gave them some alone time. Showed them that spot behind the community pool house."

"More like a shack. That thing's a piece of crap."

"Whatever. But trust me, they needed it. " She starts taking her shoes off in an angry way. "Listen to this. Merida isn't allowed to bring Tooth home to her family. Is that ridiculous or what? Her mom has practically disowned her. That sick little bi—"

"Relax, Astrid. Go punch a wall or something."

Her eyes are daggers. "Screw you."

I groan. "Hold on. Wait. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come across like that. Really, I'm—"

"No. I'm sorry, Jack." She stands in front of me, her arms out.

"Uh, what are you doing?"

She kicks me in the shin. "Offering you a hug, dipshit."

"Why?"

"Because you were left alone all day. I forgot Hiccup had to go to work and you've been here for hours." A sigh, a flick of her braid. "Just accept it."

I run my hands down my face and laugh. "You are so bipolar."

"I said, accept it."

My response is a sigh mixed with more laughter. So it's a slaughter? Holy crap, I just realized that the word laughter is slaughter without the s. I'm trying not to crack up as Astrid yanks me to my feet. Subtlety is harder. Even harder with my face against her bangs. Mirth is still there, shaking my body and making me bite my lip. But there's something about this awkward hug. Astrid gripping me tighter than necessary. Angry yet comforting. Nails dig into my back. And my hands are huddled around my chin. Like a child being hugged by their jerky mother. Breaking open one of those Wonderballs for the first time. Looks like she isn't really hollow inside.

The hug lasts a few seconds. Feels like an eternity. In a single moment, I am reminded of why I used to like her. When I first met her, I was so jealous of Hiccup. He has his own little flame encased in ice. And she loves him so much. It's obvious. Being loved…that would feel amazing.

But this is no time to get emotional. She lets go and ruffles my hair. I pull at her braid in return.

She's in the kitchen. "Why is the sink filled with bubbles? The hell did you do, take a bath?"

I shrug. "You do what you gotta do."

"Butt munch."

Stifling laughter is harder than ever. I tap the remote on my chin. "Wanna watch Antique's Road Show?"

Leaning against the countertop, she stares at me for a solid minute. "Fine."

Minutes turn to hours on the couch. Toes cracking on the coffee table, arms thrust behind her head, Astrid never sits ladylike. It's one of her greatest charms. A bottle of Low Sodium V8 balances between her thighs. She's getting ready for her fight. Plenty of potassium pumping through those iron clad veins. Yeah, Astrid is a badass. We take turns guessing the prices of each antique item. A World War II memorabilia collection that goes for four thousand. A china teacup that goes for a couple hundred.

Astrid takes another swig. "I wish I had some useless crap that was worth four-frickin'-thousand-dollars."

"I've got some old books in my apartment."

"Sell that shit."

"They aren't shit."

"What books are they?"

Sighing, I look at her through my peripherals. "Just some classics. Treasure Island, Pride and Prejudice, that kind of stuff."

She snorts. "Toss that Jane Austen crap out the window. I can't stand that era of male chauvinism and frilly skirts." Another swig, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. "You need to read Game of Thrones, man. Or you can be like Hiccup and read the biography of Da Vinci."

"Yeah, right. Just give me an issue of Playboy and I'll be happy."

A bony fist meets my shoulder.

We keep watching. TV remote between us. Three episodes begin and end. Credits are flashing by when Merida and Tooth walk in. They look kind of ruffled. Towels that were left in the dryer for too long. All hot and wrinkled around the edges. One of Tooth's feather earrings is missing. Hand holding always feels so warm and fuzzy. Mocha and milk mixing at the fingertips. The perfect cup of coffee. If you look closely, you might even see a few red curls amidst those rainbow bangs.

"Well, hello, girls."

"Hey, Jack."

It's a simultaneous answer. One voice high, covered in sugar and breaking from impact. The other one stilted and annoyed, filled with so much embarrassment that you can almost hear the red. See it on both their cheeks. That sweet flush. Thinking of candy when I see them, sugary lips bitten by marshmallow teeth. They're like the candy couple. Merida's long licorice caught in a snow cone. They're so hot I want to dive into that snow cone and drown.

But I'll just keep that to myself.

Teasing is all right, though.

"Seriously, guys, we've gotten through three episode of Antique's Road Show. What took you so long? Couldn't figure out how to find your way back…from the pool house?"

Merida laughs and sits on the arm of the couch. "Stop shoving your nose into other people's business, Jack."

"I agree." Tooth sits on her lap, trying really hard to look all sassy. Flipping her bangs back and looking at me through the side of her glasses. Her attempt is so hilariously adorable.

"Quiet, ankle biter. You two just sit there and keep looking cute."

Merida stares at me with those shut-your-mouth-Jackson-Overland eyes. Yep, they're easily recognizable. Tooth just blushes even harder and buries her face behind a curtain of red.

Astrid rips the remote from my hand. "Can we watch something else, please? I need something exciting, something that gets my blood pumping for the fight. Something like…here we go."

The rest of us react in order, from Tooth to Merida to me.

"Oh, I used to like this show when I was little. Look at the rainbow one, she has hair like me."

"Now this is a proper children's show! Female ponies kicking ass!"

"Hell yes…"

We spend the next hour watching My Little Pony. It's the one episode where Twilight Sparkle discovers the elements of harmony. And then it's the one where Rainbow Dash discovers the joy of reading. To all non-Bronies/Pegasisters, that probably sounded like gibberish. My apologies. Here's a quick summary: MLP is awesome…the end.

I blink a total of eight times during the last episode.

Astrid clenches the V8 bottle between her knees.

Reading is some intense stuff.

A yellow sun slips down the sky before I realize what's happening. Hours of watching TV and sleeping on the couch have turned to twenty minutes of frantic running. Duffle bags on the floor, full of equipment. White bandages rolling across the tile, chasing Astrid as she runs to her room. I'm finally out of my scrubs. Hiccup's clothes are a little long on me. V-neck shirt with sleeves below my fingertips. Cargo pants are tight and I step on them when I walk. He would run his hands down his face and sigh. But he would let me wear them, because he's just like that. Acts of kindness permeate his life. Giving a homeless man his shoes in the dead of winter, rescuing a bloody cat. White bandages become soft in his hands. Healing comes naturally to him. In a perfect world, he would be the surgeon and I would be the amputee. He deserves better.

But then again, he does have Astrid. She loves him, prosthetic leg and all.

Toothless chases the bandages that are chasing Astrid. Claws scratch the tile as he slides all over the floor. Even he is anxious for this fight.

Astrid, the kind of heated anxiety that comes from being the top dog on the playground, the one that every kid fears, boy or girl. She walks around the apartment in her tight black shorts that go down to her knees, her matching sports bra exposing her abs. Her gloves are pink, go figure. And there's a strip of pink camouflage along her outer thighs. Girly yet terrifying. Knowing that this chick could rip most people to shreds.

But not me, never me. Because I am definitely in shape and not already fighting depression, can't you tell?

"We're taking Merida's car." Astrid pops out of the bedroom, duffle bag slung over her shoulder.

I notice the inconsistency of that statement. "If you guys had a car available, why'd you take your bike to the mall?"

She shrugs. "Cause I wanted to. Now come on."

I get a nice punch in the gut as she heads towards the door. Normally, this wouldn't hurt. But ever since eating that haggis, I've been feeling shitty all day, and this doesn't help. I take a sharp intake of breath and lean against the wall, thinking I'm going to puke again, praying that I wasn't poisoned by Merida's awful cooking.

Looking down, I see her feet. Tooth is hovering in front of my face.

"You ok, Jack? You look awful." Feel her fingers against my cheek, painted nails tapping my skin. She's a personal space invader. Not that that's a bad thing.

"Tooth's right, you look a bit…odd."

"Thanks, Merida. But I'm fine. Trus—" I feel something coming on. Can't tell what it is. Some kind of nagging at the back of my throat and then up in my nose and then I sneeze and try to stop it, so it comes out all high-pitched. This little squeak that sounds like a mini Pikachu yawn. It's official. My manliness is completely shattered.

Tooth is attacking me. Holding my head against her chest and making those weird fangirl noises that Hiccup makes whenever he sees a picture of Irene Adler from Sherlock.

"That was adorable!" She glances at Merida. "I think little Jackie is sickie. He even feels kinda warm."

"Stop with the baby talk, you know how I hate that. But you've got a point." Now Merida's hands are on my face. Except she pokes and prods without a second thought. Each nail a scalpel. "He does look a bit peaky. Maybe we should have taken him to the hospital after his fall?"

Astrid groans from the doorway. "You're off duty, Merida. No need to play nurse. I'm gonna be late! This is real simple, either all of you move your asses or Merida and Tooth move their asses and Jack stays here."

"Oh don't be such a sour-puss. You'll get there in time." Merida and Astrid have a dirty look exchange that melts into muffled laughter. She grabs my face. I see nothing but red curls. "Ok, Jack. You think you can go to the fight?"

The answer to this question eludes me. When I stand here and think about it, my whole body responds to the negative. I suddenly feel awful. Swollen ankle hot and heavy as I lean against the wall. Nerves prickly. Cacti in my brain. Cacti in my skull. It's a desert up there. Someone turns on a heat lamp and lets me bake. The more I think about it, the worse I feel. And then I realize that I've been holding it in. Fatigue from a fall that left me with a fuzzy memory of a girl I desperately need to find. Sprained limbs. Old thoughts. Symptoms of a cold that make my eyes water. I'm almost positive that haggis gave me food poisoning. There's a dull throbbing in my head, my chest. My fall still lingers. Because it wasn't just a fall from a balcony, it was a fall from my fantasy. Clouds made of false happiness evaporated. My imaginary world of the "unfeeling surgeon" is gone. How much do I have to break? How hard do I have to fall? Isn't crying and almost dying enough?

Nope. Never enough.

After five minutes of thinking, my answer to Merida is a muttered "yes" followed by another round of puking in the sink. Bubbles cover half my face. I'm kneeling on the tile, my head against the cabinet, as the three of them argue about what to do and whether I'm dying or not.

"We should have taken him to the ER after he fell!" Merida throws her hands up. "What are we, a bunch of uneducated idiots?"

"He's been fine since we got home!" Astrid is pulling at her hair, teeth gritted. "How were we supposed to know this would happen?"

"He fell from a two-story balcony, Astrid! We should have known!"

"No offense to you and Hiccup…but you guys are nurses, you probably should have seen this coming."

"Oh shut up, Tooth!"

Back and forth and back and forth. They're fighting and I'm lying on the tile, trying to cool off. Everything feels so hot. I want to escape this heat trap that is my skin and dive into an icy lake. Well, that's an ironic thought. Icy lakes don't really agree with me. Last time I took a dive, the water hugged me too tight. It shoved its fingers down my throat and tried to gag me. Now I'm thinking about Rapunzel and the way she cringed, just like that girl in the hospital. Screaming about blue eyes has fallen into silence. Now, I see her shaking and pulling at her sweatshirt as she tries to get away. From me, from memories. We might be more similar than I think. She's been hurt, it's obvious. So have I, but not in the same way. Both of us were violated, except the hands that gripped her tight were made of human flesh.

Thinking about someone hurting her makes me even sicker. It's hot down here, back of my hands against my burning forehead. Everything on fire. The words, the air, my eyes, my tongue. All of it burning. My luck keeps getting worse. First I lose a patient, then I cry in front of my best friend, fall off a balcony, meet a girl that may or may not be a figment of my imagination, and now I'm sick and embarrassed and this weekend officially sucks.

Now I sound like a whiny teenager. Even better.

"Jack! Jack!"

"Huh?"

Someone is kicking me in the shoulder. Based on the level of intensity, I know it's Astrid.

And then Merida confirms my hypothesis. "The hell, Astrid, don't kick the poor guy!"

"Relax, carrot top. He has to snap out of it. He's really starting to freak me out and we have to get going." Another kick. This time a little harder. Hard enough to make me flinch. "Will you be ok here, Jack? You don't need a hospital or anything, right?"

I shake my head about five times before I answer. "No…no, I'll be fine here. It's probably just the flu or whatever. Seriously, I'm fine." So I stand up to prove my point. It's a very slow ascent. "See, guys? Go to Astrid's fight, have a frickin' awesome time. Please, don't baby me."

They stare at me for a long time. Feel like some kind of spectacle, leaning against the counter with all eyes fixed on me. Their nods are in unison. Red curls bouncing, blonde bangs drifting, rainbow strands sliding all over like ice cream.

"Ok, if you're sure, I guess..." Tooth starts slowly towards the door. I think my harshness scared her. "Feel better, Jack." Her feet seem to drag. Bracelets jingle, crooked glasses slide down her nose. Watching her walk is even more entrancing through the heat of fever. If I wasn't puking so much, today would be a great day to get with a girl.

Not "get with" in the traditional way. Just get with her lips and the crooks of her elbows. Get with the bends in her knees, the curls of her hair. A good makeout would feel so nice. But I'm about to be left alone…again.

Astrid gives me one last affectionate kick. Doesn't hurt so much anymore. "See ya later, don't burn the apartment down."

"Will do. Make sure to kick ass."

"Will do."

And then she's out the door. It slams. She's really mad, I can tell. But she's trying to hide it. When she fights with Hiccup, she does the same thing. Trying hard to contain all traces of anger, trembling and clenching her fists as Hic throws intellectual insults at her. From all angles, from all sides of all rooms. His accuracy is that of a sniper rifle. Now I can feel her irritation slipping through the cracks.

Merida is the last to leave. Hands around mine, she smiles. Makes her look tired. "Take care of yourself. If you want me to stay, I—"

"No. Please, go and have fun. I'm a grown man."

"You're still a wee bastirt to me." A ruffle of my hair, a kiss on my cheek. I'll never understand her Scottish phrases. But they always make me happy.

Her fingers linger on my hand. I still feel her touch as the door softly shuts. So here I am, standing in the middle of the floor, shaking and burning as the room spins. I should probably lie down. That's a good idea. Hiccup's pillow still smells like the ocean. Cracked lips breathe it in. Sweet smells wafting through the case and into my mouth. Earthiness, sweat, sea salt from a trip to the beach a few weeks ago. Why is he so perfect? No, seriously. Hic is awesome. We're two best friends that have experienced every kind of thing. Breakdowns in the middle of the night, breakups and makeups, too. We've shared sex stories and childhood stories.

One night, I told him about my first time:

There we are, sitting in the living room of his apartment. We almost never hang out at my place. Bringing people there makes me uncomfortable. Like they are judging me by how it looks. Drawn curtains mean that I am antisocial. Dusty countertops say that I am lazy. And the black box beneath my bed tells people that I am secretive. I should be. That box holds letters from Pitch. White envelopes stacked up to the brim, covered in sharp handwriting that could have come from a monster's fingernail. But of course, he isn't a monster. He's just a confused asshole that can't control himself. Kind of like me. Except I don't hurt others. Healing desires. Hopeful desires. Wishing that I could save people with just a single glance. Pitch and I are alike, but not in the same way. If I were to hurt anyone, it would be myself. Beneath the pile of white envelopes, there is a silver knife.

Slightly orange from rust.

Slightly red from blood.

Dried blood has always fascinated me. How it turns from screaming scarlet to mourning black. It could be tar, fresh blacktop spread like butter. It could be anything. Hidden knowledge tells you what it really is, though. Humans seem to naturally recognize blood. I know I do. Smeared all over the knife. Trailing down the wall. My secret box holds everything. I do not believe in vanishing your demons. You should talk to them, learn their names. I sit with them at night and listen to their stories. There's no stopping them. No drowning them, because they know how to swim. And I'm ok with that. Demons are beautiful in the right light.

My demons are there as I tell Hiccup about my first time. We sit on the couch, eating popcorn and watching Die Hard.

"So, who was she?"

"Some girl in my tenth grade biology class."

He pops a buttery piece into his mouth. "Did she have a name?"

"Honestly, I forget."

A well-timed eye roll. "Wow…you're such a romantic, Jack. What a memorable experience." He stifles a laugh. "If Astrid heard that, she would beat the shit out of you. Then she'd say something along the lines of, 'you misogynist bastard, women are not put on this earth to satisfy your sexual needs'."

"You sound just like her. It's scary, man." I slide down the couch and onto the floor. "And I was in tenth grade, cut me some slack."

"Still, one does not simply forget the name of their first sexual partner. It's like forgetting the name of your first pet. I remember mine. Her name was Mittens."

"Mittens?" I raise my eyebrows. "Was she from an exotic country or something …"

He almost chokes on his popcorn. "Oh God, Jack, I'm talking about my first pet. I had a cat named Mittens when I was six. You really are a dim-witted Booboisie sometimes."

This word rolls around in my mouth. "A boob…a what?"

"Google it."

He's moving into a new topic. I can tell by how fast he says this. Anxious to throw away the prologue and go right into the first chapter. The beginning of my sex life. Why does his restlessness make me so excited? Why am I plagued by such an awesome male friend that I may or may not be in love with (joking, of course)? Hiccup joins me on the floor. Leaning against the coffee table, he uses his crossed legs as a bowl to hold his popcorn.

"Now, tell me about this nameless girl. Let's call her…No Face."

"Then you can be Chihiro and I'll be Haku."

Another eye roll. "This is not Spirited Away. Stop evading and tell the damn story."

Messing with him is so much fun, but I'll stop. There are angry lines around his brows. "Fine. Listen up. I met her at a party. We had never talked in class before, but I knew who she was. She called me 'that weird kid with frozen eyes'. Poetic, huh? All I remember about her is that she was the artsy type. One of those hipsters before the phrase really existed. Her hair was…uh, it was some color on the visible spectrum…"

Hiccup interjects, "You don't even know what she looked like? Where did you meet her, in a darkroom?"

"Don't be a smart ass. And don't interrupt. It was a house party, so it was pretty dark to begin with. And when we started kissing, we were actually blindfolded. So there's my excuse. It's perfectly legitimate, too."

Hiccup groans and lays down on the floor. Popcorn rolls into his crotch area. "I swear, if this is some weird bondage story, I'm leaving right now."

"Relax, Hic. We were playing a stupid game. High school crap. Like Seven Minutes in Heaven except both of us couldn't see. We were in a closet, blindfolded, but we knew who we were kissing. There was a brief meeting outside, then some random classmates shoved us in there to get to it. So we kissed, then I went for her boobs, she went for my crotch, clothes came off and we did it in a closet."

"Blindfolded." He says this slowly. It's meant to be a question.

"Yep, blindfolded."

"You had sex for the first time blindfolded. That is quite a feat." Kernels go flying into the air, landing in his mouth. "You must have known your female anatomy pretty well to accomplish that."

"Well, I am a surgeon."

And then we start laughing. It turns into tears streaming down our face, our shoulders shaking as we laugh harder than we should. Because it really isn't that funny. Popcorn and Die Hard make things funnier, I guess. So we laugh our asses off and fall asleep on the floor.

I told Hiccup about my first time a while ago. It was a pretty short story, full of holes and lacking detail. But he accepted it. Accepted me. Which is why I love him. The whole story is packed with sappy feelings that no manly guy would ever tell his bromantic partner. I kept it hidden. Like my secret black box. It's a story that invades my dreams some nights. Mixed in with visions of Pitch walking down a long hallway. Those dreams are the worst. Fantasies bumping against nightmares. They meet in that hallway. Highschoolers giving each other the evil eye. Air between them buzzes, lights flickers. There is no fog on the mirror of my mind because they are all holding their breath. Just breathe, damnit. Just inhale for a second. They never do. They keep grinding against the other. Blood pooling on the bathroom floor, her hair pooling at my feet. Pitch's skin greyer than a black and white film, her skin colorless. She could be anything. I know what he is. And these people lie next to me. Turning my head, I see them there. But I never see her, just darkness. We never locked eyes that night. Pitch and I locked eyes every second. We never blinked. These dreams are the worst. I'm tossed back and forth. Outside and inside. She is warm and I'm panting. He is cold and I'm dying. No one is breathing. They still hold their breath. Damn you all, damn you. Outside, I am sweating. Inside, I am twisting and in pain. Can never tell what it is. The consequence of taking too many pills or of being alone for too long. It all feels the same. A hollow aching that sits atop my pelvic bone and makes my mind itch. These dreams are the worst to wake up from. I've been holding my breath in real life and I gasp for air. For a moment, I think I'm gonna be sick and then I'm throbbing all over. Sometimes, I roll onto my stomach and scream into the pillow. Fingers claw at the sheets and I'm making love to nothing.

I won't tell the whole story now. It's too far down for me. I don't think I can hold my breath for that long.

Back in the present, I am half asleep on Hiccup's pillow. Come on, Jack, don't fall asleep now. If you do, you'll dream about Pitch and your first time. Maybe Rapunzel will appear, too. My body can't handle that right now. Already, the idea of her is getting me worked up. Panting through my fever. I'm a dog locked in a car in late July. How unfortunate. I once saved a little boy that had been locked in a car in late July. His parents were arrested, but his life was saved. By me. These trembling hands saved a life. They are motionless now.

Minutes go by. I can't tell how many. Only that they keep going and I am still alone. My stupid ass fever won't break. Feet made of lead take me to the bathroom. Five minutes drinking from the sink just makes me sick again. Throwing up water makes me feel wasteful. I look like shit. Jackson Overland, the great surgeon, can't even take care of himself.

After lying on the floor between the bathroom and the bed for about an hour, I go to the couch. I think I am finally done puking my guts out. There can't be anything left. The fever is still there. I take my temperature. One hundred and two. Not terrible. A hundred and four is the danger mark, and since I'm a doctor I should be able to handle more. Right? Fever logic is so skewed.

The next half hour is boring. Sitting on the couch, drinking plenty of water, the bottle balanced between my legs. This evening is so long.

Fifteen more minutes. Bored, so very bored. I still feel like crap, but I'm no longer throwing up every five seconds. That's good. The door beckons me. Handle all shiny, peephole blinking at me in that way cats do. Warm and affectionate. Grinning, I walk towards it. Blue material trails in front of me. I'm wearing Astrid's Snuggie. She would murder me if she knew.

I bolt the door so it won't close on me. What a nice hallway. Carpet under my feet. Look left and right. That's what my mother always said when I crossed the street. She said the same thing about frozen lakes. Look for cracks, look left and right. I never listened. Naked toes curl around the matted fibers. The floor is so warm. And I am so cold. My muscles twitch as I shuffle across the hallway, straight to the opposite door. It's the closest apartment, the door looks unmarked and never opened, so why not take a gander? I'm about to knock when footsteps make me jump. They're heavy. Without looking, I know who it is.

Remember the "bitchy landlord"? The one I mentioned when I was talking to Rapunzel? He isn't really a bitch, he's just big and loud and really annoying. He complains that the building isn't decorated enough. There's no excitement, he says. Nothing to make his eyes wide with wonder. People who talk like that piss me off. What's the point in wondering at things? No one ever answers your questions.

"Jack, my boy!"

That's another thing. He calls me "his boy".

"Spend the night at Hiccup and Astrid's again? You might as well move in. There are cheap apartments on this floor. I sold one pretty recently. Good deal, good deal!" His laugh shakes the whole hallway.

I turn towards his voice, eyes still on the door. "Hilarious. But I think I'll keep my apartment."

Footsteps come closer. Each beat makes my head hurt even more. But there's something there, something about what he just said. Wait, he sold an apartment recently…could it be Rapunzel?

But he beats me to the questions. "Oh, Jack, you look awful. Are you sick?"

That voice is even closer. I look up and he's there. Mr. North, the landlord of this building. A big man with tattoos up and down his arms. White beard, dark eyebrows, red long sleeve shirt rolled up to his elbows. Honestly, he looks like a badass version of Santa Claus, but I won't ever tell him that. Known as just North to most, he is the overly friendly guy that runs this place like a workshop. Strict when he has to be, a complete goofball most of the time. He puts sticky notes on the doors. Hello, good morning notes. Move your car notes. Stop being antisocial notes. Hiccup and Astrid get those a lot. Most days, they can't get out of bed. And they never go to any of his special events. Christmas parties, St. Patrick's Day parties, all kinds of parties they don't attend.

He asks again. "You sick?"

What do you think? I'm standing in the middle of the hall, wrapped in a Snuggie and rubbing my bloodshot eyes. So I silently ask again, what do you think? But I say nothing. I just nod and look back at the door.

"So you recently sold an apartment? To who?"

North slaps me on the shoulder and laughs. "I can't go around telling people's business. But, I can trust you to keep secret, no? New buyer was a little younger than you. She was the nervous type, didn't want anyone to know she was moving in."

"It was a girl, then?"

"Yeah, a nice young lady." His lips are close to my ear now. About to tell me all about her, this nice young lady. About to tell me all of her business. "She paid three month's rent in advance and moved in all quiet-like. No furniture, no asking for help. She said little, kind of like man in moon."

My blank stare is misinterpreted as ignorance.

"The silent face on the surface of the moon. You should look up at him sometimes, Jack. He is very wise."

North's words are always confusing.

Another nod.

Another laugh and slap on the back. I can feel the roughness of his hands. And that's weird because I'm wrapped up in a Snuggie. More questions jump at the gate.

"Where…where does she live?" Wow, that came out creepier than I intended. His laugh turns the bones in my ankles.

"Here's something funny. She lives right in front of you!"

"This door?"

"That door."

A peephole before my eyes. Clouded and curved in order to keep things out. I've always liked them. They let you see who's outside without letting them look in. Hiding behind a wooden door feels like home. My body could be made of wood. My eyes the shuttered windows to my soul. Nine inch nails hold them tight. North's words are muddled. He says something about me being a "creeper" and then he apologizes, laughs, and slaps my back. Something about goodbye. His footsteps are still heavy as he walks away.

Eyes are fixed on the door in front of me. Bubbled peephole looks up at my face. She is behind this door. Or maybe North was lying and this is all a joke. High temperatures make me paranoid. Wood cold beneath my nose, Jack Frost nippin' at my toes. They curl into the floor. Wanting to open the door, I lean against it with all my weight. Please, open by yourself. Don't make me turn the handle and listen to the awkward creaking. It'll just scare her away. Blonde hair will fall into her quivering lips. Then she'll back into the wall and claw at it. Insane. Afraid. Desperate.

Three things that make me shiver.

They are oozing out of the door. Drugs through a vein that may or may not be connected to me. Already, the connection is there. Wi-Fi peaks and I can see her there. A blurry outline the color of a dead flower. Open the door, Jack, open it…No, wait…knock first, you asshole. This fever is driving me crazy.

My fist slides towards the handle. Knocking would scare her, I'm sure of it. So I'll just walk right in and say hello. What a great idea…

When the door opens, I swear I am lost.

I'll swear it on Pitch's heart. The deadest thing I ever saw. We buried it together beneath a tree with peeling bark. Our names were carved in there once. But the storms have blurred them. Crayons color them like dead flowers. Flowers should be dying now. They need to wilt and crumble because Rapunzel is killing me. The good kind of killing, if there is such a thing.

The door is unlocked. It's wide open. Across the bare tile, she is dancing on a field of newspapers. Ink and sweat drift towards me. The kind of sweat that comes from doing something beautiful. Limbs twist into each other, bending at the elbows and knees. Folded up, wilting and dying. Then blooming again. She keeps dying. Over and over again. Ankles roll when she bursts back to life. Hair goes flying every which way. She dances to the sounds of Lindsey Stirling. Lights flicker on the floor. Clear yellow from the dying sun outside. It folds, too. Orange candlewax dripping down the sky. Rebuilding is hard. Melted wax sinks into the metal and won't go back together. My sister used to cry when she was stacking broken candles. Don't touch them, sis, they're cold and dead and will never come back. Fire cannot be reawakened. Just like the raindrops that fall from a dead cloud. They will never go back into the sky. So why not dance in the rain? Stupid, that's so stupid. Rain just makes tears less important.

She keeps moving across the newspaper. They are pulled apart and scattered. When I see her painted toes, I understand why. Because they are literally dipped in paint. Just below her ankles, she is wearing a pair of purple and gold socks. Her footprints make one of those rare sunsets that widens your eyes. Streaks of color follow her across the room. One tile is protected by yesterday's shooting. It happened downtown. Another is covered by the obituaries page. Right now she is balancing atop a picture of the shore. A beached whale was found a few days ago. Why can't people just let them die? They beach themselves for a reason. They know it is their time to go. We should be saving those dolphins with the six-packs around their necks.

You know who dances like a dolphin?

Rapunzel.

Her plastic necklace is invisible.

She starts to spin. Paint splatters. I know what she's doing. Feet pointed, she is painting her apartment with every turn and jump. Dipping her feet in the pan then twirling around. Random patterns appear on the blank walls. Staccato toes then a sweeping arc above her head. It goes from jerky to graceful and then back again. Spotting, a word I learned from Hiccup, keeps her eyes on the far corner. Never faltering.

The sun dies slowly. This day feels like forever. She casts a really dark shadow. Black ink mixes with her body, blurry body sucked into darkness. Obituaries eat her up. Another spin. Sweat flies and I swear it hits me in the face.

I'll swear it on my grave. The makeshift one that is kept up in a corner of my brain. It's nice there. Trees hang low and leaves crunch beneath your boots. I take the time to step on the extra crunchy ones.

Violins draw me closer. Fingers must be playing her. The way she moves, dragged from one end to the other, can't be real. But it is. Every curve and muscle and flick of her hair. Waves of movement roll up her spine. Starting at her toes, she curls into it. My toes into the carpet. Shock waves move out across the water. They tumble beneath it all and make the ocean shiver. I can see her shock waves. Birthing, growing, moaning, aging, cresting at the tips of her blonde strands. Breathing into a flower must look like this. Being inflated by nature's breath. Her hands ripen and reach for the sky. No, it's just the ceiling, but beyond that is a plane of blue. No longer blue, but black. Night eats everything up.

This is all about ripening. When the time is right, her eyes open. Cheeks turn pink. Bones pop and muscles swell. She ripens with the cresting wave. And I can see the lines along her waist. They are soft and beaded with sweat. Her shirt is cut across the hem by jagged scissors. So are her shorts. Pink has never looked so un-innocent. Maybe it's the way she bends herself. Inward, hands reaching for that place that is so hidden from me. Almost like she's in pain. Then she's back, somersaulting across the newspaper and leaping into the air. I know how this makes me feel.

Alive.

Surprised.

Desperate.

Overwhelmingly sexual.

Guilty.

Sad for some reason because I know that she has been hurt and now I'm looking at her and watching her and undressing her with my eyes and examining her instrument and wondering who pulls the strings and wishing I could pull some myself and wanting to hold her and kiss her and never, ever be told again that my light has gone out. How can it?

My fever is climbing. I'm burning all over. I realize that I am sitting on the floor, the Snuggie pulled off and covering the top of my head. Each breath is yanked out of me. How long have I been watching her?

The same song is playing. Violins are still humming. Rapunzel starts leading with her hips and I swear I want to die.

I'll swear it on Hiccup's can of spilled paint. It fell over when he and Astrid were arguing one night. It's sacred.

Kind of like this moment.

"Oh my God…"

This moment that just ended.

It is a soft "oh my God", nothing too big. Her words fall to the newspapered floor. Straight onto last night's deadly car accident. It happened at the second stoplight on your way to Target.

Our conversation plays out on separate frames. Looking through the peephole in a kinetoscope.

"You're…"

"Jack, from earlier this morning."

"Was it really this morning?"

"Yeah, you sound surprised."

"Time just goes by slow, I guess. May I ask a question?"

"O-Of course."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

The box breaks for a moment. The illusion is gone. Someone fix it, please.

"I just…" Come on, Jack, tell the truth. Say that you've been searching for her and dreaming about her all day. Laugh about the idea that she is a ghost. Because she isn't.

"You just what?"

Her voice is forceful. Not like I remember. I pull the Snuggie tight around my shoulders.

"You just wanted to come spy on me? You just couldn't help yourself?"

"No…I just…I wanted to," I cover my face with the blue blanket, "find you."

The box is fixed.

"Why?"

I peek through the blanket and shrug. "I don't know. To apologize, I guess. Because I offended you and scared you earlier." Why am I being so open? Quick, shutter my eyes back up.

"You didn't scare me, you just reminded me of a scary time. It's fine." She sighs and looks at me through her blonde hair. "But you really shouldn't walk into people's apartments uninvited."

"Honestly, I didn't know anyone lived here. It looks so empty from the outside."

Now she shrugs. "Apparently my existence is easy to overlook."

That must be why everyone thinks she's a ghost. But I don't say that, of course. My eyes take this moment to drink her in. She looks down at me from her newspaper kingdom. So comfortable in her natural habitat. Nervousness is almost gone. It is still there, though. Hands behind her back, feet together, she's tied up. By what I cannot say.

"Just so you know, Jack, I'm not afraid of you."

This makes me nervous. "I never thought you were."

"That's not what I meant. I'm not talking about you, specifically. I'm talking about men in general. I think you got that impression when we met. It's not like I'm afraid of men with pointy teeth or any of that. I'm afraid of rapists and killers. And those can be anyone. Take a killer's spirit and put it inside a woman, and it'll be the same inside a man. I think that we would all be the same, no matter what body we're in."

Her words fly at me, hitting the bull's-eye and making Merida proud. Where is this coming from? She speaks with blank eyes and barely breathing lips. Each sentence is taken from a textbook, if textbooks talked about fear and humanity and all of those secret things.

I let the Snuggie fall from my head. "Uh, wow. That's pretty deep, blondie. I had no idea you were so outspoken."

Muffled laughter. The sound of butterfly wings being torn off. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "No one ever does. They think I'm some nervous little girl that talks too much when I'm scared." Green eyes are suddenly dark. "They think I'm naïve, too, which is wrong. My mother, who isn't a monster, she thinks I'm very naïve."

It's starting again. That wave of nervousness inching across her face. Fingers pull at a lock, twirling it into a corkscrew. She looks away from me. "She just doesn't understand me, that's all. She loves me, I swear she does…she just thinks I'm fragile."

"You're delicate, not fragile." My lips move before I can stop them. Slight smile, the fever compelling me to do weird things. Rapunzel cocks her head.

"I like that. Delicate but not fragile. Kinda like an egg."

"Yeah…"

She sighs again. It carries me away. Toes tingle as the A/C rolls across the tile. "I should tell Mother that someday. I'm sure she would understand." Green darker than ever. "Mother thinks I'm fragile, but she also thinks I'm…I don't know how to explain it. Kind of tough, but not, like a rock, like I'm—"

"Impenetrable?"

It's an honest guess, seriously. I'm not trying to be a smart ass. But she twitches when I say this and she gags a little. I watch her shoulders dip.

"Um, yeah, like that. And I'm not…impenetrable." She spits it out with full force. Her body is an ocean and the tide of her skin pulls back, revealing her ribs. The small stomach deflates then comes back. The spasm passes.

When she lapses into these scared moments, she looks so small. I can just imagine a little girl staring out a window in the dead of night. One, two, three shakes of her head. A hair flip and a clearing of the throat. Her eyes are blank once more.

"See? I can get over things, I'm not afraid."

"I know, Rapunzel."

A grin is slowly ripening. Milky skin is sheened with sweat. I like the way the light bounces. "You didn't call me blondie."

"The moment called for a little more sincerity. Besides, it's not too bad a name." I stick out my tongue and she laughs. Very, very quietly.

"Want to know something, Jack?"

"Sure."

She starts playing with a thread on her shorts. "The reason Mother thinks I am…impenetrable…is because I never say anything. Anything bad, that is. She thinks I'm naïve, but she still makes…I mean, asks me to do things."

It's hot, so hot. Cold sweat makes me tremble. Wrapped up in the Snuggie, I try not to think about these things. But I ask anyways.

"What things?"

"Random things. Like dancing." Feet trace circles on the newspaper. The paint is dry. Lindsey Stirling is on an endless loop. "I dance for her boyfriend when he comes over and I dance for the men who live in our building."

Emotions are fighting so hard inside me that I fear I might puke again. Guilt, shame, sadness, lust, the typical feelings of a lonely man who hasn't been laid in months. Rapunzel just told me she's a stripper. Holy crap, holy crap. Taking advantage of an abused girl is sick, though. Something I would never do. Still, I find it hard to stop the burning. It's moved into my pelvis, now. Then I process her statement and I feel nauseous again.

"Your mother makes you strip for money?" Not the best way to say it, I'll admit.

"No, she asks me to. And it's the least I could do, or so she says. She needs financial help and I'm really good at dancing. I always get the best tips." She snaps the elastic band on her shorts. "This is where I keep them. In a band, mostly in my underwear."

I don't know what to say. Listening to her speak, watching her expression and gestures, I could be talking to a child. The urge to laugh and cry is making me choke.

"Do you understand what you're doing?" I sound so angry. Her mother's face is stuck in my head even though I've never seen her. "You strip for men. You take off your clothes for strangers and your mother tells you to."

"Asks me to."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it does. Ask and tell are two different things. Just like delicate and fragile." Tracing circles turns to pirouettes, another word I learned from Hiccup. "And you don't get it, Jack. I'm not afraid of men, remember? I'm afraid of labeled people. The men are faceless ATM's. So they don't scare me. I pick a spot on the opposite wall and stare at nothing." She cocks her head again. Even farther down her neck, almost breaking it. "Would you like me to dance for you?"

I take a deep breath. Even the cold air makes me nauseous. I know my answer immediately. This girl should not be treated like a plaything.

"No…"

"Good." She flashes a smile as she spins across the floor. Her shirt flies up and I can see the outline of a tattoo on her back. Wonder what it is.

"You're sitting like I do sometimes, all scrunched up. Does your stomach hurt, too?"

I laugh hollowly. "Hurts like hell. So I take it you're sick, as well?"

She shakes her head. "Nope. I always have this feeling inside. Maybe now that I'm away from Mother, it will go away." The spinning stops. Green eyes find my bloodshot ones. Violins scream in the background, their voices muffled by a pillow. "Maybe I can be truly impenetrable. You think I could be like that someday?"

Our stare lasts for a few seconds. I look at her, and I see myself.

You were right, Hiccup. You were so right.

My voice is barely there. "Of course, Rapunzel."

"Good." After another sigh, she sits on the newspaper. The rest of her apartment is empty. Nothing but a few cans of paint, some groceries, a blow up mattress, and a tiny backpack overflowing with clothes. There are five strawberries sitting on the plastic.

Without looking at me, she says, "Why don't you rest for a bit, Jack? You did come in here uninvited, but you're not a rapist or a killer so I like you. You look really sick so you should get some rest."

"My friend's apartment is right across the hall, I can just go back there."

Eyes flick up. Waiting for a deer to cross the highway. Waiting for a star to finally fall. "But look at you. You're all pasty and trembling. You're trying to look tough. And if you leave, I'll be alone again."

"You could just come across the hall with me."

Her eyes widen. Never mind, never mind. Bad idea. I sigh and walk over to the mattress. "Fine, I'll sleep here. Happy?"

"Very. Now I'll play some nice music and you can rest. Having some company would be nice." She closes her eyes and smiles. "It'll be nice to have a sleeping audience. That way, I can dance with all my heart and paint the walls with my brushes."

"Your feet?"

"Yeah, my delicate feet that are not fragile."

"You tell 'em, blondie." The mattress accepts my weight. It bounces slightly as I lie on my stomach. Feels pretty good. All of my bones relax. Muscles still clench, my lungs pinching the sides of my heart. Then Rapunzel puts on a song. There must an iPod somewhere in this room. She says it is a song called Lost Skies. Kind of sad. Piano songs always make me depressed. My final thoughts are of her dancing behind my eyelids, and then Pitch covers my brain with one hand and I'm gone.

It's funny how everything always ends with me asleep. Little moments are tied up by periods of unconsciousness, restless slumbers, and lazy naps. Dreams fringe my life. Maybe the sandman will bring me good dreams.

Dreams of a girl dancing in the middle of a newspapered floor. She balances an egg on her finger and looks at it with wide eyes. Then she hammers a nail into the top of it and it does not break.

Delicate, but not fragile.

Just like Rapunzel. The girl that is real, the girl that still haunts me as I sleep.

If I wake up and she is gone, I know I will cry. But she won't vanish. I can feel her heat even as I drift off. It warms my body. Shards of ice vanish from my muscles and her painted feet carry me away.

Good night, Rapunzel, see you in a little while…


	4. Treatment Stage 3: Go To A Warm Shelter

It's just a dream. But it feels so real and the sky is so black. Overturned inkpot in my mind. There are splotches all over my face. Dribbling black on my body that feels so cold and exposed. Exposure can kill you. Getting too cold as you climb up the mountain, get lost in the snow, fall into a lake. I remember how sharp the blades were. Dirty skates were left on the white shore as I went for my sister. The ice did not even touch my toes. It was all numb. Novocain in my face. Kind of like now. Because I am sunk deep, surrounded by dark water that fills up pink lungs. There's a sharp pain in between my ribs. A real pain that makes me jolt and sink even faster. Something grabs my ankle. Trying to scream, nothing but bubbles and more water and gagging and scratching as I am pulled down. What the hell is happening? Who is trying to kill me?

Isn't it obvious? These hands only feel a certain way. Their touch is good at reminding. Lost days full of brushing fingers, burnt leaves in my hair. We used to lie beneath the tree with our initials carved into the bark. Green vines tangled us up, except they didn't look green. Just some dull grey that reminded me of his skin. He sprinkled dirt on my face. Laughs like shadows. The pain between my ribs was there, even then. Now it floods my body. These hands are digging into the wound. The hell…can't you stop? But he won't stop. Pitch has never stopped. He's always been there, twisting the knife into my wound. Fingernails like familiar needles, all of that poison dripping into my veins. Cold apples. Warm roots. Remembering that rain that seeped into the mud around our heads. Black mud. Black eyes beside me. I am dragged deeper, deeper, deeper until I am dragged straight into a memory.

We are lying beneath that same tree. Bent branches are scalpels. His face is my latest victim…No wait, I mean patient. My patient. The hell would I say victim? Pitch makes me say all kinds of weird things. So we're lying under that tree. Rain is hot and wet on my face. Or maybe that's Pitch on top of me. Because he always does that. His cheek is buried in my chest. Then I push him off, or at least I try to. Fingers on bones on skin. I feel him everywhere. We're friends. But not this kind of friends. It's the way he holds me and slips his hand under my shirt.

"It's not gonna hurt, Jack."

"But I don't…I don't like you this way…"

"Then why don't you stop me? You're stronger than me, Jack."

That kind of silence that makes you guilty.

Laughs and falling leaves. "You like me, just say it. There's nothing wrong with it. After all, what goes better than dark and cold?"

Our time beneath the tree is long. Slow, too. Something I really want to forget but can't. After it's finished, I roll over, my face in the mud. Thinking about the difference between outside and in, feeling the pressure. The good and bad kind of pressure. Pitch is still all over me. His hands go from under my shirt to under my shorts. Just barely. My belt's never felt tighter. It's the kind that looks like a seatbelt, with the silver buckle and adjustable length. Pitch presses the button.

"Stop…"

"Oh come on, Jack. You're so tense. I'm trying to help you relax."

"I'm tense 'cause of you. Stop it."

"But I can help you, Ja—"

"Stop!" I roll back over, onto Pitch, slamming him against the ground. Mud drips down my face. Breathing hard, shoulders shaking. The rain is cold. Got his waist between my knees, that thin waist colder than rain and smoother than tree bark. Black sweatshirt soaked through. I feel it all beneath my fingertips. There it is again. The good and bad kind of pressure. I pull my hood up. Maybe I can hide my face. But he sees me and the rain streaks down my cheeks that look like tears and the redness and the pressure against his legs and the hair in my eyes and the hood covering it all up and the fingers trembling and giving it all away. So I do something really stupid. Something I will always regret. Pitch tastes like cold rain. He's laughing beneath my teeth. But I'm laughing, too…or maybe I'm choking…

I'm coughing into the blowup mattress. Rapunzel's apartment is warmer than it should be. It's sticky inside. My fever feels broken, that's a good thing. Too bad nothing else is good. Pink brain is sizzling like an egg, Pitch flipping the frying pan and laughing. I am dirty and gross, that memory making me want to throw up. Oh God, no. Please, no more puking.

"You awake? Or are you just coughing in your sleep?"

She's kneeling over me. I feel the strands of hair on my face. When I open my eyes, colors are everywhere. All heated, blurry lines making me squint. Great, the need to puke and the need to squint. What a perfect combo. I probably look even crappier than usual. Rapunzel flicks my nose.

"Hey…Jack. Feeling better?" Another flick. "Boop."

"What?"

"Boop." Her index lingers on my nose. "It's what people say when they touch other people's noses."

"Who the hell told you that?"

She shrugs. "Saw it on a TV show once. Want something to eat?"

Now I'm shrugging. "Uh, sure. What do you have?"

"Just stuff. Like eggs." Shrug. Again? I swear, it's like a shrugging contest.

"Ok, do you have a frying pan, a stove?"

"There's a stove in the corner over there. And I've got this frying pan in my purse at all times."

"What for?"

Her eyes are so wide and real when she looks at me. "The ruffians of course."

"Oh…right." I laugh and roll off the mattress. It feels safe here, so I'll leave the Snuggie behind. "So you know how to make eggs?"

"Nope. All I know how to do is bake pies." She's rolling two eggs around in the pan. Crouching, the newspapers rustling beneath her. All that ink on the bottom of her toes, her fingertips. She'll probably get the shells dirty.

I grab the frying pan, rolling my eyes like Hiccup does. "Just let me do it. How do you like your eggs?"

Another one of those shrugs.

So I just sigh and decide to make them how I like them. Over easy. The stove is hot. I have one of those weird sudden urges. You know what I'm talking about. Like when you're leaning over the edge of something and you have this desire to jump. You're not suicidal or anything. Just normal and confused and human. My elbow is awfully close to the burner. Maybe if I set it down, I could feel the heat and satisfy my curiosity. But I won't. Not here, in the middle of Rapunzel's apartment. She hardly knows me, this strange dude that fell off a balcony and fell asleep on her mattress. This could be a rom/com or a horror movie. Outcome has yet to be determined.

Music makes me jump. She's playing Nightcore. Nightcore, really? Last Resort on crack, digging into the walls and floors. Turning around, I see her there. Dancing and splattering paint all over the wall.

I shout over the music. "The hell are you doing?"

"Having fun! I never get to do this back home!" She laughs and throws her head back, jumping around the room. Mouthing the words, she lets the F-bomb fall from her lips as if she's never said it before. Each chance a heated breath. Smiles bigger than the sun. She revels in this…what is it?

Freedom?

Being able to say something she's probably always wanted to say. I wish I could feel that free. Without noticing it, I have started swaying. What the hell? Hips bounce to the music. See? I've got a pretty nice ass. One that keeps pretty good time. Rapunzel sings louder. Her words are hooks.

Don't know how it happens, but it does. Cooking eggs turns into a head banging session. She's next to me, shaking salt into the pan. We shake in unison. It gets to that one part.

"Keep on bleedin', keep on bleedin', keep on bleedin'!"

With each "bleedin'" she's breaking more eggs over the pan. Then she breaks one over my head. Do the same to her. Yellow yolks frying and burning and sizzling and dropped onto the floor. Shells in our hair as we dance in the corner, next to stove. All of it covered in yellow blood. White flesh, flesh milky, milky eyes swimming and swirling, swirling yolks beneath our feet, feet bounding across the room, room shaking with the weight of words, words about cutting life into pieces, pieces of egg thrown all over the floor, floor swathed with newspapers, newspapers from last Sunday, Sunday…no it's not that time yet, yet I feel like this day is too long, long and blonde and making me lose my mind.

Don't mind the mess. Pink, yellow, black, and red. Colors dripping down, into open holes like open mouths. Egg fights expend the carton. We're left with Styrofoam and a song on an endless loop.

It really is my song. Wish someday would tell me I'm fine. My biggest dream. But people don't do that, walk along the bridge of your life and talk you down whenever you want. I've been standing there for a while. Testing the water, dropping stones into darkness. Each ripple brings those hands back. Grey, groping. I want to see those hands again. I need to see them again. For real.

For now, Rapunzel's hands are real. They spin me around and around. It smells like sweat and burnt eggs in here. Yolks frame our feet. We start screaming the lyrics at each other. She's against the wall. I watch her slide down it, hand reaching, and then she hits the floor as the song dies. A short life. But an epic one. Wait, it's coming back. Reviving itself, the Lazarus song.

Someone is knocking on the door. More like beating it half to death. Rapunzel doesn't seem to notice, so I walk over. Feet slide all over the egg-stained tile. I'm dizzy and full of laughter.

My luck has always sucked, so it's no surprise when I open the door and get punched in the face. Man, this person was ready. Not even waiting to see who it is. I could be an old lady or a little kid. That fist could have just broken my new dentures. Knuckles are thick, digging into my cheek. Notes bore into walls. Bones bore into my face. Eyes closed, I can almost picture my attacker. Probably some short, thick guy with a gold chain around his neck. Plenty of weirdoes live in this building. I'll open my eyes and see a tiny Mafioso in his mid-fifties. And then he'll beat the hell out of me and I'll look pathetic as usual.

It's only a couple of seconds. Open, punch, stagger, gasp. I lean against the doorframe and wipe the blood off my lip. The fist comes again, but this time I'm ready. Dodging under the arm just in time.

"What the hell is your problem?" I tackle them, arms around their waist. And then we fall to the floor. Lying in the middle of the hallway, I've got my knee against their ribs. Seriously, I can see their ribs beneath their skin. Because they're shirtless. And they're not a middle-aged Mafioso, let me tell you that. It's some guy that looks like he jumped out of an Old Spice ad. Nothing but muscles, tattoos, and blue hair. That's…odd. Tribal marks around his arms, traveling up his side. He looks pretty pissed.

So I'm straddling this random guy, cheek pounding, Can't Be Tamed blasting out of Rapunzel's apartment. I really don't know how to feel about this.

Don't have time to feel, anyways.

He flicks me in the ear. "Really, shorty? Are we really doing this right now?" He has a thick accent.

"Shut up, Australian asshole. You started it." I try to act all tough, digging my knee in deeper. He doesn't even flinch.

"Seriously, mate, I'm twice your size."

"Yeah, and you're the one who's pinned. Go figure."

He laughs beneath me. Even his laugh has his stupid little accent. Sounds like a douche to me. "I could push you off with one finger. I'm just being courteous right now, don't wanna embarrass you."

I wish Hiccup was here with his iron-tipped sarcasm. My idea of a comeback is a smirk and flick of my hair.

He laughs even harder. "You're a little prick, aren't you?"

"You're the one who punched me!" I hit him in the shoulder. Once again, unfazed.

"Only because you're being too damn loud!" He sits up and I slide right off him, somersaulting into the wall. "I could hear you blasting your bloody music all the way down the hall. Some people are trying to sleep."

"So you knock on the door and punch whoever opens it? I could've been a girl, douche bag!"

"Sure you aren't a girl, mate? You look like one to me." He grins and runs a hand through that stupid blue hair. He's that jock you hated in high school. The one that beats people up in the locker room and takes P.E way too seriously. I mean, he's wearing a bear claw necklace. Come on. Still, there's something about him...

We start bickering back and forth. He's a douche bag, I'm a fag, apparently. When I pull at his hair, he has a panic attack and shoves me against the wall. Feet off the floor, struggling.

"Let go of me you Smurf!"

"One more word, fairy boy and I'll throw you through this wall." He's glaring at me, growling deep in his throat. Geez, man, no need to Hulk out on me.

"What's going on?" Rapunzel's standing in the doorway. Head to toe egg, her hair sticks together in some places. "Jack, who is this guy?"

"Oh just an old friend. He's come to confess his undying love for me." Hollow laughter followed by an elbow in my throat.

Rapunzel's face is blank. "Let him go. I don't want trouble." Words even, eyes trained on him, the way he moves and breathes.

He chuckles. "Just let us handle this, blondie."

Her eyes widen. "Blondie? Only Jack calls me that. Now drop him, douche bag." It's quick. She kicks him between the legs and catches me when I fall. Like some prince catching the princess as she leaps off her tower. I'm in her arms for a moment. One of those wonderful moments. Egg stickiness, wide green eyes, blood down my chin.

I'm on my feet. The jock with blue hair is kneeling, his head against the wall. "Holy…hell…"

He's breathing like a wounded animal. Certainly twitches like one. Nose scrunching as he makes his way up the wall. His eyes are familiar.

One time, Pitch and I found a wounded rabbit. We were in the forest. Like usual. That dark place where everyone can hide. My black box under the bed. Sheets hanging low, fringed in dust. Our forest was full of rectangle trees. We could have been in a modern art museum. Cut sharp, afraid to touch. Flaking charcoal, don't breathe in too deeply. Leaves blew over black dirt. But it all seemed so fake. Smooth marble, my feet sliding all over. Because he pulled me so hard. Hands interlocked, we ran. Ever since the incident beneath the black tree, we had become something else. Shallow cuts in the bark grew deeper. Pitch dug into me. We hid amidst the leaves. Crispy, smelling of summer, and we rubbed them all over our skin. Or they rubbed themselves all over us. It was just tasting. He always laughed beneath my teeth. Hands over my eyes, on my chest.

He would grab me from behind. "Don't fear the dark, Jack."

I tried not to. I really, really tried. That one time, deep in the forest, my veins full of something else. He led me along the pathway. Straight to this place, our secret spot. Someone abandoned a bed in the middle of the woods. We used to sit beneath it and talk. Arms draped over the railing, rotted wood between me and my legs. Like they weren't connected to my body. Just these sticks that carried me around, followed him wherever he went. I could never escape those grey hands. So when we found the rabbit, broken and bloody beneath the bedframe, I wondered how it got there.

I still do.

"Jack." She touches my arm. Hands so unlike his. "Jack. Hey, you ok? You're all pale."

"What?" I blink and she's in focus.

Those hands touch my face. Yolks make her fingers sticky. "Stop spacing out. We've got to take care of him."

Blue hair is muttering and clenching his fists against the wall. Rapunzel must have kicked him hard.

Shake my head, trying to shake Pitch away. "Uh, I'm fine. Sorry. But what do you mean by 'take care' of him? Like the kind of taking care of that involves a hatchet and a large garbage bag?"

Rapunzel tries not to smile. "Shut up. We're gonna be nice, ok? Sure, he's an asshole, but we can't leave him outside my apartment. It'll look suspicious."

I laugh. "Sounds like you've had experience."

Silence is tangible. Her eyes are empty. "Let's just get him inside."

"Fine by me."

I have to practically drag the guy into her apartment. He's talking about how he'll beat me to a pulp. Then he's whining about how he's tender and how that girl kicks like a jack rabbit. Now he's sitting on the newspapered floor, a bag of frozen peas on his crotch.

"Damn, girl. You're strong. I'm gonna be numb for a week." Toes splay as he stretches his legs. Each joint cracks. I'm reminded of Astrid.

Bending over him makes me feel superior. "So, kangaroo kid, who are you exactly?"

"First of all, that's racist, mate. And second, my name's Aster."

Aster Bunnymund, a name fit for a prostitute. Luckily, he isn't one. Real jobs are much more boring. Grandeur falls from sidewalks lit by starlight. Topples into some craft store down town. Aster is a cashier there. He sells stacks of construction paper to frustrated schoolteachers. Looking at him now, nothing but pajamas and a bare chest, I cannot see him in one of those aprons. The Australian flag covers the pants. Union Jack on the thigh, stars along the shins. His pride is rather…annoying. Yes, annoying. Smug grin framed in stubble. As if he hasn't shaved in days. Those shifts at the craft store must be rough. He apologizes for punching me. Oh geez, thanks. His flexing knuckles make me nervous .

"You should really go to anger management classes." Rapunzel is at the stove, trying to fry one last egg. "Seriously, Aster. You might do something bad and get arrested."

"Already been to prison, love."

"Shocking." I'm cleaning the yolks off the floor. My voice is stiff but inside I'm screaming. He's been to prison, maybe he's seen Pitch, maybe they're friends. No, stop it, Jack. Don't be a moron.

Rapunzel flips the egg. "Why were you in jail?"

"Prison, not jail. There's a difference." His sigh carries across the room. "Here, let me help you. I'm pretty good at cooking eggs."

"Oh, thanks."

Aster bends over the burner. I can tell he's trying to hide something. It's the way he slides his foot down his calf.

Rapunzel isn't giving up. "So why were you in prison?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I should go to anger management classes. I beat a guy half to death." He must've burned himself because now he's cursing and sucking his fingers.

How blunt. How Australian. Not that I don't like Aussies, but there's just something about this guy. It could just be me, my own paranoid mind. Pitch is still lingering in my thoughts. Grey hands never let go. I keep cleaning. Scrubbing harder and harder with those paper towels that are supposed to be heavy duty. They're pieces of crap, just like every other kind of paper towel.

"Why'd you do it, Aster? Did he hurt someone you love? Because in TV shows a lot of people want revenge, and then they hurt the bad people but go to jail anyways." She holds the paper plate steady, waiting for the fried egg. "I think it's unfair."

She's so innocent it's killing me. I want to cry and laugh and smile all at once. Cleaning has never felt so intense. The paper is ripped. My knuckles scrape against the tile.

"Well, love, that's a story for another time. It's kinda personal, ya know?"

Scraping. Scraping. Scraping.

"Right. Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

Scraping. Gritting. Wondering what is wrong with me and why I'm so irritated right now.

"It's all right. Pry all you want. I mean, I did punch your mate in face, so I kinda deserve it."

He laughs, tapping the spatula against his shoulder. She laughs, leaning against the wall with her one fried egg. And then her shirt rides up and the rays of an inky black sun are exposed. So her tattoo is a sun, a gorgeous spiraling sun. Aster's are tribal and black and blue. Similar markings tying them together. Toes rest on her shin. Toes glide along his calf. Sweat heated by steam created by eggs laid by chickens hatched from eggs laid by chickens hatched—

I scrub harder. My mind is going in one giant circle. It keeps running. But it has to stop sometime. Everything gets tired and falls back asleep. It falls and I jump, realizing what my problem is.

Holy crap, I'm attracted to both of them. To quote Dean Winchester, could I be any more gay?

Because in this moment, I am staring at both and realizing how hot it actually is. Warm stoves have nothing to do with it. I sigh. Pitch dreams leave really strange sentiments in my head. For a few hours after I wake up, I always feel dirty. Like I am covered in black sand. Each grain sticks to me. Good thing I'm not a fairy, then I would be compelled to count them all.

Now is really not the time to be questioning my sexuality. But you know what happens when you see that really hot person and you're like "oh crap, they're my same sex". What to do, what to do? Not like doing would be the problem…

"Jack."

My face is on fire when I look up at them. "What?!"

"Geez, mate. Relax." Aster tosses me the roll of paper towels. "Looks like you could use a few of these."

"W-Why? It's not like my nose is bleeding." I start shrugging like crazy and scrubbing with basically nothing.

He raises his eyebrows. "Uh, I thought you might want 'em for the floor."

"Whatever. Thanks." Snatch them up and go to work. These yolks are so slippery. "So, uh, what are we gonna do now? Return to our homes, take cold showers, and go to bed? Sounds good to me."

Aster's laughing again. His hand is as big as my head, I notice that when he ruffles my hair. "You're such a spaz, shorty. Blondie, is he always like this?"

Rapunzel kneels in front of me. She's slowly picking apart the egg. "I wouldn't know. I only met him…today, right?"

"Blimey, and you're already having egg fights in your apartment." Aster's shaking his head, a grin on his face. "You two are odd, I can tell. And you play bloody awful music, but I like ya. I really do."

Oh geez, great. Now I can sit here and stew in my soup of confusing emotions. Someone keeps turning the burner higher and higher. Aster slaps me on the back. I'm sizzling right now.

Rapunzel takes this moment to explain how we met. She describes it in the most embarrassing way. I want to wrap the paper towels around my head and never come out. Little Jack, with his bruised face and swollen ankle. The pathetic puppy of her story. Aster is crying with laughter when she gets to the balcony part. When she's done, I'm still scrubbing and Aster is lying on the blowup mattress. Paint dries on the walls. I've wrapped myself up to my elbows. Quilted Northern isn't the soft. It's just there, hanging off my arms. I roll onto my back and look at the ceiling. Nothing but white. There are colors in my peripherals. This is when I get the idea.

"So, who's up for a little adventure?"

Aster sits up, stretching. "What kind of adventure, mate? I've got work tomorrow."

"Me, too. So nothing drastic. Just a trip across the hall, to my friend's apartment. There's actual food over there and he has Sorry."

"Like the game Sorry?"

"No, I'm just apologizing midsentence." I need Hiccup to do an eye roll. "Of course it's the game, you dumbass. Now let's go. I'm getting tired of smelling eggs."

Getting Rapunzel to leave her apartment is hard. Hard as paint when it dries. And when it does dry, Hiccup gets all pissy because it dried too fast. Now he can't change it. Rapunzel doesn't like change. She stands on the threshold of her door, leaning in and out.

Her eyes are saucers. "Jack, I…I feel safe in here."

"I know, but it's just across the hall. You were walking around all day, remember?" Try to make my smile soft. I'm shaking the black sand off my shoulders.

She shakes her head. "But now I feel safe and leaving would just be…"

"Scary?"

She nods. This conversation is setting itself up. It wants to die. My words form before I notice them.

"Don't fear the dark, Rapunzel."

When she takes my hand I feel my heart beat faster. Out of happiness or guilt, I can't tell. I pull her into the hallway. Strands of blonde linger back for a moment. Don't go, Rapunzel. Stay and be safe. No, she has to go. She needs to feel safe anywhere. The door slams shut behind her, and once again the apartment looks empty.

Inside Hiccup's apartment, she curls up on the pleather chair. Digging her toes into the tattered hole on the footrest. It's how she folds into herself, bent up like a melted candle. I smile at her and offer her the plaid blanket. The one Hiccup bought at that flea market for fifty-nine cents. She smiles back, covering herself and tucking the edges around her body. Aster tucks the eggs around each other. He's at the stove, making us omelets. The second he had seen the chrome and stacks of brown eggs in the fridge, he had insisted on cooking. Now he's wearing Hiccup's apron. It says "Everything tastes better with cat hair!" and falls just above his knees. Too tall for the apron, too tall for the kitchen. He keeps hitting his head on the open cabinets. Me and Rapunzel have already started Sorry. The growing pile of cards is spread all over the board.

"I'm taking your spot, Punzie. Sorry."

Her overdramatic sigh makes me laugh. "Fine, send me all the way back. Ruin the hopes and dreams of a young girl."

"Hey, no pouty face. I don't care how wide you make your eyes; I'm not retracting my last move."

Peering over her cards, she blinks and tries to cry. "But Jack…my dreams."

I groan and run my hands down my face. "Fine. I'll take it back."

Aster's laugh bounces all over the kitchen. "She played you, mate. Now get your ass in here for celebratory omelets."

"But I lost."

He comes out of the kitchen, a tray in hand. "But the beautiful sheila won. These are for her."

Paper plates sag with omelets and tomato slices. They're perfect. Pale yellow, stuffed with peppers, red and green. There's even crumbled bacon on top. I swear, he's a professional chef or something. Mouth full of fluffy egg, I grin and give him a friendly punch in the arm.

"These are fan-freakin'-tastic. "

"Thanks. I take great pride in my cooking." Those green eyes settle on my face. Tongue in between his teeth, he's laughing. "You've some of my masterpiece on your chin, mate. Hold still."

This cannot be happening. Rough fingertips brush my skin. He wipes the egg off with excess force, making my bruised cheek tingle. The sound of his leather skin on mine, dragging and lasting forever. I'm holding back the shiver in my spine. Sandpaper couldn't be rougher. When he moves, the tattoos move with him. Black lightning that spirals. Spirals on Rapunzel's back, everyone inked but me. I decide that I will get a tattoo as soon as possible. What'll it be, Jack? An elephant on my ankle. Wings opening across my back. My favorite quote on the inside of my arm, "to die would be an awfully big adventure". That one would be nice, make me happy for once. I'll get it done after work tomorrow, that's a good idea.

Someone flicks me in the nose. Two someones. It's the both of them.

There's a collective, "Boop."

"Thanks, guys. You know how I love people's fingers in my face."

They fall into hysterics. Rapunzel is a schoolgirl giggling at nothing. Legs tucked under, leaning forward in her desk. Put her in a plaid skirt and stockings and she would pass for a highschooler. Turn the forks into yellow pencils. Give her back her innocence. Aster could be the basketball star. Everyone trails after him like lost puppies. But he only has eyes for one. You can hear his shoes squeaking in the gymnasium. You can hear Rapunzel's paintbrush against the canvas. Look into the art room and she's there, paint up to her elbows. My highschool AU is coming along nicely. Aster ruins it by knocking over the red pieces.

"Crap…I'm sorry." He fumbles with them, his hands shaking.

"Don't worry about it, butterfingers."

"Butterfingers?" Rapunzel repeats the phrase. "That's a funny word. I like it."

She likes a lot of things. We realize this as the night moves on. Pink skies and dancing, suns and curvy handwriting. Green peppers are delicious, but they make her eyes water. She blows her nose into some Puffs tissues and exclaims that they are the softest ever. Low fluorescents cast the best shadows. She changes so much in different light.

Living room: Her face is a moon phase. Full and bright, hanging over us. Half-closed blinds let drops of moonlight in. They scatter across her face. Everything about her pale. Black and white movies will never look the same. Blonde hair silvers in the slats of light. Cold, silky. She runs her hands through it and she is a goddess.

Kitchen: Her eyes are seedless grapes sitting in the bowl. She pulls them off, one by one, popping them into her mouth. Edges are sharper in the kitchen. The fluorescents carve out crevices under her eyes. The tile is blinding. Running water flows over her fingers. She turns the silver faucet with both hands. Severed leeks lie on the cutting board. Fleshy, like limbs. Rapunzel asks for my phone and shows me a post on Tumblr. It's a picture set with the caption, "the tables are turned". Several drawings. Pillows using people in a human-fight. Marshmallows roasting humans over a campfire. She has such a dark sense of humor. It's kinda nice.

Bedroom: Her hair is full of plastic petals. Yellow roses are not possible in nature. I don't know how we got here, but all of us are sitting on the floor. I show them some of Hiccup's drawings. With the light bulb swinging overhead, everything is fake. Stiff curtains move against nothing. Air snakes around our feet. Hiccup's most private pieces are under the bed. I leave those alone. Instead, I go through his sketchbook and find some of my favorites. There's the black dragon. Just the head, with fire surrounding it. Hic loves to study animals, even the imaginary ones. So his studies are always detailed. The light bulb shakes some more.

"Here, this one's my favorite." I pull out the ink drawing of the man walking alone in the desert. No color, just black. Rapunzel gasps and moves closer.

"Wow, it's beautiful."

"Your mate's a great artist." Aster nudges me with his shoulder. "What'd you say he does again?"

"He's a nurse."

Rapunzel pulls the drawing towards her. "Well I think he should quit and become Picasso."

"I'll tell him you said that."

We sit for a while longer. There are a lot of drawings of me. Close-ups of my eyes, the invisible freckles on my nose. One of them is me sitting on a couch, still in my scrubs, asleep.

"You're friend's got a thing for ya." Aster nudges me again. Harder this time.

I laugh hollowly, my face hot. "He has a girlfriend, you pervert. Look, there she is."

We've come to the Astrid obsessed part of his sketchbook. She's everywhere. Face, profile, body, body without a head, just her head, her hands, her feet, her eyes, her lips pulled back by her teeth. Turn the page and there's a nude Astrid stretched out across the paper. Rapunzel yelps. I quickly try to shut the book, Aster begging for one more look.

Midnight eventually comes around. The alarm clocks beeps once. Has Saturday really come to an end? It's felt like forever. Falling off the balcony and meeting Rapunzel, all of that happened in one day. How? Sunday is here. Which means work is in a few hours. Astrid, Merida, and Tooth are probably celebrating another MMA win. Can't blame them. And poor Hiccup is most likely asleep behind a counter. I've always appreciated having Saturdays off. Even if I am still on-call.

Aster starts yawning at twelve-fifteen. "I've gotta get going. I'm restocking the fabric aisle tomorrow."

"I'm performing live-saving surgeries tomorrow, and I'm still awake."

He snorts. When he stretches, he looks at least a foot taller. "Still a little prick, huh? But I've seriously got to go. It's been fun."

I stand up. "At least let me walk you to the door, dear sir."

He bows. I curtsy. Great, now I'm like his little bitch. Our grand exit is cut short when the front door opens. It's Hiccup, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He tosses his keys onto the counter. They fall off. He doesn't bother to pick them up. Aster grabs them instead.

"Oh, hello, mate. The name's Aster."

Hiccup looks from me to Aster, then back to me. His eyes are half-open. "Jack, what the hell is going on. And why does it smell like eggs in here?"

My face is serious as possible. "There was a chicken invasion. Now go take a shower and go to bed. You've had a long day."

Hic tries his best to be courteous to Aster. He's tired. Purple half-moons beneath his eyes. Like Rapunzel, he is a moon phase. The half-moon. Aster is a crescent. I am a new. Hiccup shakes Aster's hand, thanks him for hitting me in the face, and sees him out. Before the door closes, Aster waves goodbye.

"I'm just down the hall, last door on the left if you wanna hang out again. See ya, shorty!"

It's shut. Hiccup turns to me. I get a you're-a-moron look and a sideways hug.

"Feeling better?"

"Yep. It was just exhaustion."

Even when tired, he sees right through my bullshit. "You sure about that?"

"Positive."

"Whatever you say, Jack. I'm going to bed now, but we aren't finished. I've got something to tell you tomorrow. Don't let me…" He pauses. Green eyes caught on something.

"What?"

"There's a girl behind you, Jack."

Turning around, I see Rapunzel standing in the doorway. Something she seems to do quite a bit.

"Um, hi."

"Hello there." Hiccup glances between us. He mouths, "Is that her?"

I nod, walking backwards. She is easy to find. Just offer my hand. Wait for her to grab it. She does.

"Hic, this is Rapunzel. The one that saved me after I fell off the balcony."

Tiredness melts away. Dimples appear on his cheeks. "So you're Jack's guardian angel. It's nice to meet you, I'm Hiccup."

I watch her repeat that phrase over and over again. Just like the butterfinger. "Guardian angel…that's so nice. Thank you."

"Well, you did help my idiot friend out, so you've earned the title."

A giggle. A hair pull. "If I'm a guardian angel, then I'm like Castiel from Supernatural."

Hiccup's jaw drops. Seriously, I'm scooping it off the ground now with both hands. That would be hilarious.

"You watch Supernatural?"

"Yeah, it's my favorite show, actually."

He grips my shoulder tight. "You hear this? She's perfect. I have already decided." He smiles at Rapunzel. "You are my new favorite person, after Astrid, of course."

"You remind me of Sam. Brown hair, pretty eyes, and you seem really smart." She looks at me before Hic can respond. "And Jack is like Dean. Tough on the outside, but not so much in here."

A finger on my chest. Then her whole hand. For a second, maybe a year, we stand. Her palm trembles against me. It happens again. I look at her and see myself. Seeing pieces of your soul in another is terrifying. It's also beautiful, too. Because you are no longer alone. Questioning reality doesn't matter anymore because they are there and real. Pieces fall together as they're tossed around the toy box. We slide and struggle. We share a special connection. Suffering. But suffering makes us human. Suffering is good. Without it, how would you know if you even have a soul?

Aster knocks over the red pieces.

Hiccup knocks over our special moment.

"Yeah, he's definitely like Dean. A pie-loving asshole that won't admit how gay he really is."

If Astrid was here, I'd have her hit him for me. But I have to settle with one of my lazy punches. "What's your problem, man?"

He shrugs. "I'm tired, ok? It's twelve-thirty and my brain is overworked. My neurons need to sleep."

"Then go and let them sleep."

"I shall." He gives a short nod. "Rapunzel, it was lovely meeting you. Have a marvelous night."

"Thanks. Sleep well." Her smile is small and so adorable.

Hiccup nods again. I think he's trying not to fall asleep while standing up. "Yeah…thanks. See you guys later…" Each step towards the bedroom is heavy. He walks out of shoes. They're tossed beneath the bar stool.

Within the four seconds of him trudging to the door, I am already thinking about him, Rapunzel, and I as Team Free Will. Us in Supernatural? That would be the most epic thing ever. Here's what I've thought of so far for episode one:

Dented door equals imminent death. That kind of groove that only a thick head could make. And that is what Jack would say, isn't it? He'd blame Hiccup's thick head and tell him to get a damn haircut already. It's been, what, almost three months since his last one? Those wavy locks are looking ridiculous.

Jack is always pulling at the flyaways. When Hiccup goes to smooth them down, he says, "Dude, could you get any more gay?"

Too long silence results in fingers tapping the steering wheel, Jack's eyes flitting back and forth. Then a muttered, "Uh, don't answer that."

Hiccup rolls his eyes. It's not his fault everyone they meet confuses them for a gay couple. It's just the way they look. Jack is such a butch. All angry with his glare that could freeze water. Brown hair slightly overstyled, clothes slightly overwashed. Because he wears the same clothes almost all the time. His hoodie isn't sentimental, though. No way. It's just "practical". Not a good luck charm either. It's a "talisman with a good record of keeping me safe so I'm gonna wear it now piss off" kind of hoodie. The necklace tucked beneath his shirt is different. He never talks about that. One rule when it comes to Jack, if he doesn't talk about it, it's important. Same with his feelings and all of that sissy stuff Hiccup is always trying to dig up.

"How you feeling, Jack?"

"Fine."

"No, seriously. How are you feeling?"

"I said I'm fine. Wanna drop it, Hic?"

Eye roll. "Come on, you're not fine. You just saw (insert some kind of awful death scene that involves either an old friend, a person they couldn't save in time, or a hot chick that could've been Jack's next rendezvous). Don't tell me you're fine."

"If I say I'm fine, I'm fine. Shut up already."

"But—"

"Shut up, Hic."

Eight hours in the car can feel like forever. Hiccup learns that whenever he makes Jack mad. But no matter, he'll just curl up against the window and pretend to sleep. Arms wrapped around himself, overgrown hair in his eyes as he watches the trees go by outside. Just a green and brown blur that could honestly be anything. A town, a city, one of those gas stations that doesn't sell pie and makes Jack even madder than Hiccup does sometimes. A pie-less gas station? What in the hell is that? It's a piece of crap, that's what it is.

Another thing, don't mention pie around Jack. The very thought is enough for him. He'll grab it right out of your imagination and shove it down his throat, imaginary filling and all. There go your pie dreams, gone forever. Snow cones are another thing. Anything with ice or cold attached to the name. Slathered with syrup, he'll try to suck them down before they melt. Letting it drip into his mouth, then sucking on the end.

Hiccup laughs. "Could you get any more gay?"

There's that glare, the one that could freeze water. "You're treading on thin ice, Hic."

"Like you that one time?"

A snow cone to the face can hurt like hell. Especially when Jack chucks it with his good arm, the one he's always swinging back.

Why does he do that again?

Oh yeah, because he's always stabbing things with that knife. Not things like pie or snow cones or old cassette tapes he scatters all over his car. Scary things. Evil things. Ghosts and demons and shapeshifters and monsters and God knows what else. He's up to his elbows in blood half the time.

So is Hiccup.

But why the hell is it like this? Where did it all start? Now is the car with the dent that Hiccup is trying to hide. Now is the eight hours of driving and the maps strewn across the hotel room. Now is the worry, the fear, the anger that drives the car and them. Now is this. But then was different.

As Hiccup hides dents and pretends to sleep, he thinks of then.

How it all began one night in his dorm room at MIT. A soaking wet Jack, a knife, something about a Night Fury, and the words that killed Hiccup.

Killed his social, emotional, and spiritual life, basically. Because they've both died too many times in real life to take it seriously.

That night, Jack tore his brother to pieces and left his conscious raw. Sibling murder right then and there. Words of guilt, calling him back. Slowly, slowly leading him down that long stretch of road towards eight hour drives and glove boxes full of knives. Jack's words tore him away.

Standing in the darkness, the rain still beating the window. Jack's hair is stuck to his face.

"Hey, Hic. Dad's on a hunting trip... and he hasn't been home in a few days."

Good Lord, that is perfection. Hiccup slams the door and I'm ripped away from my beautiful AU of demon hunting and sexy angels descending from the sky. I'm back now. It's just me. But not really. Rapunzel is here.

Rapunzel and I are left alone. We stand in the middle of the tile. Funny, her hand is still on my chest. I try hard to keep it in focus. It keeps turning grey. It's her hand though, not his. Still, my mind is playing tricks.

"So, you want to play Sorry again? This time, no pouting."

She smirks. A thing I have never seen her do. But after all, I've only known her for one day. It's felt like forever.

"Fine. One more game. Then I'm going to sleep."

"Ok. I'll walk you back over later, make sure you're safe."

She shakes her head. "No, I think I'll just sleep wherever my head falls. I like that pleather chair. And that blanket is really warm. Warmer than what I have. Would Hiccup mind?"

She's asking to spend the night. Holy crap, holy crap, what do I do? It's nothing dirty, obviously. Friends can have sleepovers whenever they want. I shake my head, trying to control my smile.

"No, he won't mind. He's passed out in his room."

Her eyes light up. "Cool." She sets up the board with sudden excitement. A yellow piece is in her hand. "Now, I'll be yellow. You have red, green, and blue. Which one will you choose, Jack?"


	5. Treatment Stage 4: Begin ReWarming

Sleeping on the job is unacceptable. Hiccup tells me this as I brush my teeth. He yawns and settles back into the mattress, hair looking like it barely survived a leaf blower attack. Easy for him to say, all wrapped up with nowhere to go. I throw a toilet paper roll at the Hiccup burrito and leave. Annoying him is my goal today. So I take his car without asking. Feet in the seat, smearing fingerprints on the glass. Yeah, he'll be pissed.

Clear sunlight keeps me awake as I drive. It's that weird time of day. When everything is halved and no human should be awake. Hot puddles from a rain that apparently fell last night. I wouldn't know. I closed the blinds before going to bed. Minutes turned to hours as I watched Rapunzel sleep in the white chair. Like a creeper, eyes atop my arms, I watched and wondered at how small a creature she really was. How her shoulders rocked. How strands of blonde suctioned against her lips, then went back out again. Pink upper, peach lower. Two halves sown together to make this…this masterpiece. They must feel so soft, tasting overripe.

There I go again with my creeper vibes. But is watching someone so strange? Sure, she was unconscious and deep in REM sleep, so her body was probably paralyzed, but it's not that weird. Her paralyzed body is really cute. It kept me up all night. That and a mix of Pitch dreams. More like memories billowing with color. Coats in the middle of Fall. Flags in the beginning of December. I used to watch the American flag out in the schoolyard. From the back of the classroom, I could see it spattered with snow. White snow, red stripes of blood, blue fields of butterflies. Memories have colors. Colors have tastes. Sometimes I wish I had synesthesia. Then I could remember the taste of cold rain whenever I see baby blue. Or dead leaves in my mouth whenever I see amber. Grey is a strange one. Ash and burnt cookies. The kind I used to bake for Pitch on Friday nights.

But don't think about that. Last night, his cookie crumbs forced me into a coughing fit. Damn idiot, he kept me up all night.

I'm nodding off when I walk into the hospital. Inwardly yawning is an awkward thing. Like when you shove a wrinkly dollar into a vending machine. People behind you start to sigh. There is a lot of sighing in a hospital. The inside of a refrigerator is a happier place. Merida is following a doctor into surgery. Sometimes I wish she only worked with me, then I'd have a familiar face in the operating room. She looks at me and I know that she is smiling behind her facemask. Crinkles in between her eyes. She waves to me even though professionalism is at stake.

Professionalism, as if she really cared about that. Last night, when she, Tooth, and Astrid returned from another epic MMA fight, professionalism certainly wasn't a priority. Rapunzel curled up in the pleather chair, Hiccup passed out in bed. I was half-asleep on the couch, hand touching the floor. They burst in like demons out of Hell, or maybe into Hell, depending on how you look at it. But they were loud, that's a fact. Astrid flinging sweat everywhere. All shiny and red-faced, they shouted about winning and punching and kicking other people's asses. Merida and Tooth ran their hands up and down Astrid's abs, then they laughed, hugging her. It turned into red making out with rainbow. Leaning backwards on the bar stool, kissing. Through cracked eyelids, I watched them. It was hot…really, really hot. No professionalism there. Just hands slick as ivory. Hair tangled as Slinkys. Knee shoved up between thighs, rubbing against those black lace panties I've seen in Merida's hamper before. Chipped nail polish flaking. Broken hair spiraling. Towards the floor, towards the bare skin beneath all kinds of material. Gossamer silk, ripped cotton, holy panty hose. Not so holy, not anymore. I tried really hard not to say anything. I rolled over, feigning sleep.

What a night, lacking in professionalism. Full of something better.

So Merida's wave means a lot more than hello. It makes me smile.

I wave back, stifling another yawning. Sleeping during surgery would not be the best. It's like sleeping during sex, cruel to your partner, awkward for anyone who walks in. Yawning's awkward, sleeping's awkward. Everything is. The way my hands move as I dig into this one guy. Lungs pink and wet. Not as pink as Rapunzel's lips, though. Never. Cutting keeps me awake. Sowing people up is my least favorite part, so I hand it off to a surgical resident. Faceless nurses hand me tools, adjust the anesthetic, tell me things that I can't remember. This is why no one talks to me. I sink into my frozen lake, gliding across the patient, skating and ignoring everything else. They are empty heads. No one seems real. Just the person on my operating table, their life in my hands. They'll live today. I feel it. No ravens on my drive here.

Another surgery. Open heart, closed mouth. The family sure is nervous. But it's nothing. Really, it's not a big deal. Just a bypass surgery that takes me about four hours. I open the chest. There's so much color, reds and blues, blinding white. I touch them all up, dot by dot. He lives. Hooray. When the family smiles, I mirror them. But it's just a reflection. The rest of my day is disjointed. Knee replacements are mismatched bottle caps on a case of glass Diet Cokes. Sixty to ninety minutes, I'm done. Sudden car accidents are filled with bodies already torn up. There's blood all over the gurney. Thank God that isn't my job today. I'm just doing scheduled surgeries. My break is nonexistent and my day is long. My gloves are painted red and my mind colored white. My scrubs are blue and my cheeks are pink.

Again, synesthesia would be fun right now. Merida passes me in the hallway, red curls poking out. She smells like antiseptic, hopefully no one died today. If I was a nurse, I'd have more time to talk. Not that nurses don't do any work, they just have more…time. If Merida's patient dies, well, it's not really her patient. It's the surgeon's. It's the surgeon's fault. My fault. She gets to wheel Mrs. Moreno down to her new bed, talking in the elevator and smiling. I never talk to the patients. But I guess that's my fault, like a lot of other things. Oh stop being emo, Jack. Do your job, save people's lives. They're pushing me extra hard today, four surgeries instead of the typical two. I'm sweating in this frickin' oven that's colder than a refrigerator and hotter than the sun. Some nurse I've never met finds me leaning against a wall.

"Doctor Overland?"

"Huh?"

"The patient is ready for preparation."

"All right, I'll be there."

"Yes, Doctor."

Our conversation is hollow.

My next patient has an early stage stomach tumor. Walking to their room, I see them in medical terms. Partial resection. Open with no lymph node dissection. Two hours, no complications, no—

It's a her, not a they. This patient has a face and a smile. Even if it's rough, brows thick, heavy atop her eyes. Harvest moons look like that when they rise. She's tired, I can always see it in their eyes. She combs her fingers through her messy brown hair.

"So you're my doctor."

I nod, careful not to get too close to the bed. "Yes, I am." Her gaze makes me uncomfortable. "So…this surgery shouldn't take more than two hours. Have any questions, concerns?"

"You're awfully young."

Moons focusing on my face that still bears a shadow of a bruise. This middle-aged woman stares and assesses me. She sighs and leans back against the bed.

"You've got experience, right?"

"Of course." Maybe my tone is a little harsh. Whatever. "Look, ma'am, I'm basically the best surgeon in this hospital. You've got nothing to worry about."

She bursts out laughing. "Is that so? At least you're confident, that's refreshing." She nudges a pile of coats sitting beside her. "Hey, Sandy, you catch that? He's the best surgeon here."

The pile of coats is actually a man. He's asleep, tucked beneath two jackets. She elbows him, pulling him out of sleep. It's hard. He keeps nodding off, horn-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. I never noticed him until now.

"Sandy, wake up. You're mother's about to go into surgery. Oh good Lord, Sandy!"

The more he raises his head, the less he looks like a man. Upright and he can't be more than twenty. Old man glasses and shaggy blond hair combed back, his sweater one of those bad Christmas gifts. Poor kid needs to get a stylist or something. He rubs his eyes, yawning. It's contagious. Holding it back makes my eyes water, my nose itch. But this woman can't see her surgeon yawning, that's just…unprofessional.

The kid called Sandy smiles up at me. The cold hospital turns his cheeks red. Marble eyes, round cheeks, I think about those cherub dolls.

My sister had eyes like that. I smile back. "Uh, don't worry about your mom. I'll take good care of her."

He takes out a pen and pad of paper. Handwriting large and curling every which way.

-Thanks. I trust you, Doctor.

Seeing those words is a lot different than hearing them. They're tangible proof that I'm not really alone. I should grab that lineless paper and keep it forever. Written words take more time than spoken. When you waste time for me, I like you a little more. Because then I'll try my best to give you that time back. That's what my job is, returning time.

"My son can't speak, Doctor. Sorry about his fancy handwriting. I'm always telling him, 'enough with the cursive!'" She laughs and pinches his cheek.

"It's fine. I think his handwriting is nice, very professional."

His smile widens. Some more writing.

-Thank you. You're a nice person, I can tell.

Holy crap, I think I'm about to cry. This kid with his words. Silence is so much more intimate. The silence between two lovers, you and I panting, post-coital. The silence between siblings after a stupid fight. Now I see the silence that is permanent, a person that lives it, breathes it, and will never leave it. He embraces the voiceless and wastes his time for me. This kid…why does he affect me? I smile at him as I head off to the operating room.

Silence during surgery is different this time. I feel almost relaxed. Ping of metal against metal. It rings in my ear and reminds me of a piano tuner. Metronomes swing back and forth. Blue silence found in slipping veins and arteries, all of it reminding me of another thing. Two somethings, one happy, one sad.

First: Once upon a time, Merida and I went to Scotland. She wanted to bring me to her homeland. We've been friends since med school. One sweaty summer, she decided that Scottish mists were more appealing. Hell yeah, anyplace is better than here. We walked up Arthur's Seat. I slipped at the top, just my luck. Bruising my ass. There was this Mormon choir that had walked up together. All dressed up in white long sleeves and black slacks. I was sweating like a husband caught cheating and these people were dry and happy, their shoes shiny. What the hell? Merida's hair was wild and full of dew. On the way down, we passed fields of high grass. I just wanted to take a picture of myself. Up there, in the high hills of Scotland, the mist rolling and the grass looking so soft. In movies, people run through it effortlessly. I tried that. My feet got tangled up in the knotted stems. But the tops of the blades are soft. Softer than I thought. Walking down the hill, my body leaned back; I ran my hands across them. Cats feel like this. Finely brushed tails. These kernels made my palms tingle. So I sat in a patch, letting my knees collapse into them. They fell flat beneath my legs. I thought of a crop circle and then a cattail and then a golden field of wheat. What is this stuff? Wheat? Whatever it is, it called me. When something looks so soft, so real, so golden that you just want to touch it. I sat there for a while. Silence filled my ears. Merida laughed and called to me from a distance. Dew made my knees all wet, my hands, too. Against my face, puffy cattails minus the wide eyes and quiet meows. They tickled my cheeks. My time with them has to be documented, so let's take a picture. A selfie that makes me look transported. Another time, another place. Maybe it could be a self-portrait in Middle Earth. After a long trek across the wilderness, I have come to rest amongst the grass. Orcs are approaching, but I don't care. I take a picture of myself before the heat of battle. So I'll aim the camera high and hope I get a good shot.

That's a happy memory. Silence at the top of a mountain is awesome.

Second: Once upon a time, Pitch and I lay in silence. Beneath a black, a black something. Not a tree. It had many blades that spun slowly. My childhood bedroom was painted blue. Not so childish anymore. He snuck in through the open window. Throwing pebbles at the glass that had already been broken a dozen times. The duct taped never did any good. Moldy tennis balls rolled across my carpet, his wet shoes making puddles on the floor. He smiled at me and came onto me with those grey hands. One of my biggest regrets in life is succumbing to darkness. Succumbing to him. Fingers pulling at the flannel shirt half-tucked into my jeans. Seatbelt unbuckled, all of him moving closer and closer in the blue dark that tasted like rain. I sat down on the edge of my bed. Sheets crinkled in my fists. The Spiderman sheets that I kept from the age of nine onward. Pitch took away my nine-year-old self. He ripped little Jack out through the buttons and zippers. And I let him. That's the sad part, the sad, sick part that haunts me every day. Then I start to wonder what would happen if I told my friends. If Rapunzel found out, would she hate me? Back slowly away, calling me disgusting? Acceptance is so important to me. Something so important that I never talk about it. Ever. My friends, they would never look at me the same. Hiccup would probably cry, feeling sorry for me. But then again, Merida would understand. But maybe not. I'm…different. Me being any more than a skirt-chasing man would tear our reality apart. So forget it. Whatever. That night, lying in silence and watching the fan, all of it can just be a dream. How he ran his hands through my hair. How he held my blushing face against his chest, my teeth clenching. Legs struggling to find each other in the dark. At last touching, intertwining and feeling so cold, so soft. All of that just a dream…

"Sutures are in place, Doctor. The patient is stable."

A nurse is telling me about Sandy's mom.

I nod to him and the rest of the nurses. "Good work, everyone." That's really all I have to say.

When I go in to check on Sandy's mom, a decision I had trouble making, she is awake. Soft smile, warm, rising eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good. A little sore."

"That's to be expected. No need to worry about that."

"Of course not, Doctor. How could I be worried after having 'the best surgeon in the hospital' operate on me?"

She laughs. I laugh. Sandy holds up another one of his signs.

-You saved my mother's life. Thank you.

I want to tell him the truth, that any surgeon could have successfully removed that miniscule tumor. That her life was never in jeopardy because of early detection and proactivity and all that stuff. But I just nod and bask in the silence. Sweet silence full of rising moon eyes. White sheets are snow laden valleys. IV's are spider webs glistening on a branch. Silence gives us time to imagine. And in the silence, we find impossible things.

Like Rapunzel sitting in the passenger's seat of Hiccup's car when I'm ready to go home. I open the door and she's there, bare toes pressed against the windshield.

"What the hell?"

She crosses her arms, grinning. "That is no way to greet a lady."

"You're right. It's a way to greet an intruder, which you are. Seriously, what are you doing in my car?"

Small white teeth biting her lip, toes curling. "This isn't your car."

I roll my eyes, Hiccup style. "Whatever. But how did you get here? Did you walk all the way from the apartment?"

Her laugh is full of sunshine. "No, no, don't be silly. I felt like seeing you, so Aster drove me here."

"So where's Aster?" I'm slowly getting into the car, almost like I'm afraid she'll attack.

"He dropped me off and then went shopping. I think he has to pick up some groceries or something." She shrugs and sinks deeper into the seat. "But does it really matter? Where he is, what he's doing?"

"Uh, I guess not." Fingers trying to insert the keys without looking. "But how did you get inside the car?"

She holds up a wire hanger. There's my answer.

"Oh. I didn't know you were an expert at grand theft auto."

Another shrug. "I have my secrets. Now close the door."

Fine, I close it. But what the hell is going on? Bare toes turning red against the glass, teeth biting and chewing and eyes going wide like a cat in the dark. That grin looks more like a shaking grimace, that sunshine streaming through the eye of a hurricane. And I'm getting this creeping feeling down my neck that's all too familiar. Close the door…close the door? Why? Why would she care what I do? Why are my thoughts so damn paranoid? What is going on?!

So I ask her. "Rapunzel, what's going on? You're kinda creeping me out." Awkward laugh follows. HA. HA. HA.

Her eyes are bigger than ever. Hands tangle in her lap. "Look, Jack. I've really liked hanging out with you. Meeting you was awesome, really. But something's been bothering me, a secret I've been keeping. And I have to tell—"

"What are you talking about?"

"You…"

"Rapunzel, you're freaking me out."

Turn those green stars to me. Supernovas in the sky. "Don't fear the dark, Jack."

…huh? Wait, what? Each word is stretched out. Digging deep into my neck, blood rushing, heart pumping. It's spoken through years, jumping over black trees and through broken windows. She's a cold, hard puppet with blonde threads smashed against the seat. Is it possible for a dead person to speak through another? Someone dead to me, dead to the world. Rapunzel…why are you saying this?

I open my mouth, nothing comes out.

"I recognized you when you said that to me. Last night. In the hall. You told me not to fear the dark and I knew it was you…you're the one he's looking for." Bite lip, pull thread, everything dropping ten degrees.

I say nothing. She twists a strand of blonde around her finger until the tip turns white.

"I know what you're thinking, Jack. 'Who's he?' So I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything."

This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening.

"When we first met, I told you that I was a runaway. And it's true. My mother and I lived in an apartment, she needed money and I was good at dancing. I mean, I'm still good at dancing, but you get what I'm saying. So I danced for her boyfriend and he paid my mother for the…show. And then she told other men about me and my show and they paid her, too. She made so much money, a certain man became interested in her, her business. He said he was one of those pimp people, and that I was really pretty, so he wanted me to work for him." A shrug, a fat tear rolling down her face. "And what was I supposed to say? I couldn't say no. I mean, how could I stand up to him and my mother? She needed the money. She needed it really bad. It really isn't her fault…he took advantage of her."

"And you." I've finally found my words.

She nods, then shakes her head. "He just wanted the best for me, he said he liked me…but then again, he brought me to the ugliest, the meanest people…"

I swear I've never noticed the scars on her shins and under her forearms. It's like the words bring them out. Each sentence turning them whiter, brighter. The long line running up her thigh, disappearing into her shorts.

When she sniffs, her whole body shivers. I offer her a tissue from the box under the front seat. Hiccup always keeps them there, I don't really know why.

"Thanks…I just haven't ever said any of this out loud, so it's hard."

"No. Don't apologize. It's fine." My speech sounds robotic.

She shakes her head again. "No, it's not fine, because I should be apologizing. I should be begging you for forgiveness." And with that she starts crying again, the tears streaming.

"Why? I don't understand."

"Because I knew who you were after I met you on the stairs!" She covers her face with both hands, kicking the glass with both feet. Then she's slowly peeking through. "Obviously at first I didn't recognize you because you look so much younger in the picture he gave me, but after you fell asleep on my mattress and I looked at you and compared faces, I realized. And when you told me, 'don't fear the dark, Rapunzel' I was positive who you were…and still, I said nothing and acted all, all fake like those stupid cheerleaders in high school. I…tricked you."

This is all a joke, right? Her words fall flat in front of me, landing in my lap. I stare at them, unable to blink or breathe or think. "What picture? What trick? What kind of stupid ass prank is this, Rapunzel?"

Her gasp catches in her throat, her whole body against the window, her cries reminding me of lost puppies. "I-It's not a prank. I swear to God, it's not a prank. It's this picture. Here, look at it. Take it, please. It makes me feel so guilty."

The photo she thrusts into my hand is a Polaroid. Bent edges, torn down the middle then taped back together. It's a meticulous taping job. No…there's no way.

I'm almost afraid to turn it over. Because I know what this is. The date written in black ink, the handwriting that makes my insides prickle. And prickle and prickle and churn and swirl and spin until my eyes are burning, my stomach's twisting. It's all I can do to not throw up here and how. All over Hiccup's dash. He would be so pissed. So damn pissed. Once I turn it over, I have to roll down the window. I can't hold it back. It tastes like sour lemonade.

Rapunzel's sobbing next to me, pulling at her hair and pinching her cheeks. I roll the window back up and wipe my mouth with one of those tissues. "Stop. Just stop it, Rapunzel."

She keeps crying.

"Stop."

Keeps crying.

"Stop."

Keeps.

"Stop."

Crying.

"Stop!"

With each word I hit the steering wheel. "Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!"

Slapping palms against black. Digging toes into brown. A few Three Musketeer wrappers, some dust, some stuff that shouldn't be there. Because Hiccup is clean and this car is dirty. I'm dirty. Sitting in this car, it rejects me. The photo is on the center console. I'm in it, no surprise. Faded smile, flat eyes looking at nothing. I think I'm sixteen, maybe seventeen. My hoodie oversized, my pants too tight. But that isn't what bothers me. That isn't what's wrong. It's the person standing next to me. Pitch looks the same, the exact same. And I want to die.

I turn to Rapunzel, breathing hard, clutching my chest. "Why…why do you have this? Why, Rapunzel? Seriously, why do—"

"He gave it to me, ok!" She hits the window, stamps her feet. "He gave it to me, I took it. There's nothing else to say!"

"Who is 'he'?"

"You know who he is, Jack!"

"Just say the name, damnit!"

"Pitch! It was Pitch Black, ok?"

That name. That name. It makes my gut double knot, my knuckles whiten, my thighs catch fire. She spits it at me, the glass fogging with her words. Because his name is heat itself. Condensation dripping down. Wet on my cheeks. Or maybe those are tears. I place my forehead on the steering wheel and take deep breaths. They're not deep enough.

"Ok, ok…I just…oh my God." Another not so deep breath. "H-How do you know him? Where did you meet him? He's…he's in prison, he's in prison. I know he is."

Head shaking back and forth, eyes red. "No, he's not. His sentence was shortened, he was let out last year. I met him by chance, really. Just a random ex-convict that turned into a pimp. I was just another employee, that's it. And then he told me he was looking for someone and he gave me that photo. Told me I was to keep an eye out for the boy in the picture, said that he was a 'special client'. I had no idea I'd actually meet him, meet you…"

"But Hiccup's apartment building. Why'd you move in? Is it some kind of trap, were you waiting for me?"

"No! God, no!" Her voice breaks, neck constricting, chest heaving. "I just had enough of dancing and feeling bad all the time, so I ran. I left my mother…left her with him, that monster."

"He's not a monster!" It's out before I can stop it. I'm screaming at her, hitting the wheel, the tears coming no matter how hard I try to stop them. "He's not!"

Rapunzel grabs me by my scrubs. It hurts to move. To think. To breathe. To dream. We're nose to nose.

"Yes he is!"

"No he's not!"

"He beat me with a coat hanger once!"

"He stabbed me in the stomach with a kitchen knife!"

"Then why the hell do you defend him?"

"Because I love him!"

Silence.

This is the kind of silence that comes at a funeral. Heated silence between pauses in an argument. Cold silence after committing murder. This silence is a curse. What have I done? What kind of a world is this? A messed up one, a very messed up one. The worst game ever made that cannot be deleted or erased or destroyed or forgotten, ever. My ears are ringing so loudly, don't stop, don't stop. Faster and faster. Allegro, allegro. What is happening? Ears are ringing, ears are ringing. Bones trembling, DNA splitting. A strand of blonde. A fleck of green. A gasp pressed in between.

In between my vertebrae. Like scalpels into skin and bone saws into ribs. It twists me into this shape against the steering wheel. Molded, wax melting off a candle. And everything hurts. Toes buzzing with sleep, stomach tightening and tightening and tightening. My organs are crumpled pieces of paper shoved into a rubber glove.

Words of the present: Hopeless. Now is tied up with black string and shoved beneath the bed. Mortification. Now is shriveled up in the sun. Anger. At Rapunzel. At myself. Now is throwing a tantrum in the corner of the room. Sick. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Now is hiding in its foxhole, and it never, ever wants to come out.

"Jack."

Her voice doesn't even sound real.

"Jack. Look at me."

"…No."

"Just look at me. No judgment. No feelings, no anything. Just look at me."

"But—"

"Don't talk. Just look."

Her fingers touch my jaw. I try really hard not to flinch. They're cold beams of sunshine. The kind you love and hate. She turns my face towards her. Don't look, don't look. My cheeks are burning, my heart is banging and I'm afraid it will leap out of my chest. A nervous glance. I can see myself in her wide green eyes. I look so out of place.

"Just look, Jack." She moves closer. And closer. "We both need to just stop and look. Realize that we're both running from the same person. Hell, we're even running from the same thing."

"What would that be?"

"Shame."

That's a word that makes me feel all sticky inside. Skin hot beneath my scrubs. Fog on the window. She pushes her forehead against mine and closes her eyes.

"Just listen to the silence. We're sitting in a car in the edge of a parking lot. No one's around. No one's judging or staring. Do you feel ashamed right now?"

I feel myself against the window. Cool glass shielded by overhanging branches. Smudged fingerprints and condensation, and when you look outside you see the world through a lined filter. My filter. Rapunzel's filter. Seats are warm from minutes, hours, years of sitting and talking. The car is pressed into the tree line, alone and invisible. No one around. No one to judge. I look at Rapunzel.

"No. I don't."

"Good. You need to feel unashamed all of the time. You need to be honest." Her breath lingers on my face. She's right there, so close. I can't see her eyes, they blur into kaleidoscopes. Foreheads still touching, I feel her smile. "And you can't help who you love. So I'll help you find him, if you want. Then maybe you can let him go. And someday, maybe you'll love me."

Feel the tear roll down her face.

And then she kisses me. Out of nowhere. Swooping down, peach and baby pink touching my lips. One at a time, soft and tender like bruises. The thick bottom lip touches my teeth. It's lighter than air, quicker than lightening. I taste her for a moment. Sunshine and paint and dust motes swirling in her apartment. A spark tickles my spine, moving up into my chest, down into my pelvis. But only for a fraction of a second. Still, it's so powerful. And then it's gone and she's gone, the car door slamming shut behind her.

I catch a glimpse of the sun tattoo. The real sun shines overhead. One blink, she's nothing but a smudge running across the parking lot. I'm starting to think Aster didn't bring her here. Watching those long legs, how fast she sprints and disappears behind the cancer treatment facility. She ran here, I know she did.

The wire hanger is in the passenger's seat. I look at it and feel sick again. But I end up throwing it in the back, promising myself two things. Two things I'll never repeat. One is cruel. One is kind. Both will help me let go.

Merida says I look awful. Not that I blame her, I performed four surgeries today and discovered that my new friend has Pitch for a pimp. Lying on the couch in Hiccup's apartment, she massages my back.

"You're so tense. And you feel so warm." She's sitting atop my ass, straddling my waist. I'm shirtless, she's wearing sweat pants and a tank top. If she was straight, this would totally be a compromising position. Her knuckles are deep in my shoulder blade. "Seriously, Jack, you're burned out. You need to take some time off, go on vacation."

I laugh into the couch. "Oh that's a great idea. And while I'm off in fairyland, maybe I'll even get to ride a unicorn."

She slaps my back. "No need to be a smartass. I was just suggesting."

"But you know I can't take off, Mer."

"I know, I know."

Everything moves when she sighs. My chest, her knees. For a second I close my eyes and try to will myself to sleep. Those Scottish knuckles, hardened by years in the Highlands, feel so good. Relaxing. Amazing. A groan escapes before I can stop it. She starts laughing.

"Getting a little excited, are we?"

"Shut up." Cheeks burning against the cushion. "It wasn't my fault, your masseuse skills are too good."

"I know it's not your fault, you big baby. Moan and groan all ya want, Tooth knows I've got eyes only for her."

She digs her knuckles into my lower back. Holy crap that feels awesome. Hours spent at the table. Standing and sweating. Operating and making sure no one accidentally died, all of that comes unraveled. Merida picks me apart with her magic fingers. Bones crack. Muscles spasm. At one point she thinks I'm laughing into the cushion for no reason, so she laughs, too. But I'm actually crying. The wire hanger is on the coffee table. She never asked about. Not when I got back from work, not when I laid down.

"What're you laughing at?" Tickling my sides doesn't help. Her effort just makes me feel guilty.

"What's so funny? Tell me, ya wee fanny."

I can't even laugh at her bad Scottish phrases. The tears keep coming.

"Jack…are you?"

Finishing sentences is overrated. She knows what I'm doing. The way my chest shudders isn't new. When my girlfriend broke up with me in med school, my chest shuddered just the same way. Merida was there then. She's here now.

"Oh Jack. Whatever it is, it'll be ok. I know it will be."

Body warm against mine. Elastic of her sweatpants, crinkles of her shirt. She lies down, resting her chin on my head. Arms wrap around me in a hug. There's nothing to say. Just silence, the kind that comes after a rainstorm.

Hiccup and Astrid spent the day together. Celebrating another victory is always an event. A nice breakfast in bed, two eggs scrambled, four slices of white toast. A lunch at Smokey Bone's, and then some swimming. They come back from the community pool, sunburned and dripping. Astrid's bikini is visible through her cover-up. I look sideways at them. Merida and I are now sitting upright on opposite ends of the couch. My scrubs back on, her finger absentmindedly tapping her lips. Some 1960's film called Lolita is playing. The ancient VHS player running. Why did Merida pop this in?

I had laughed when I read the summary. "So some old dude falls in love with a 'nymphet'?"

"It's deeper than that. Have an open mind."

"They don't do it, do they?"

She groaned and turned the TV on. "Just watch the bloody movie."

Hiccup's reaction is somewhere in the middle. He leans over, careful not to drip on the armrest. Bangs plastered on his forehead. "Uh, what are you guys watching?"

"A poignant examination of love spanning the age-gap."

"What'd you say, Merida?"

Another groan. Some sliding down the couch. "Just sit down and watch it. You'll understand."

Astrid glances over. "Oh I've heard of this movie."

"Well I haven't. Have you, Jack?"

"Nope."

"Exactly." Hiccup drops a pool noodle on the floor. "I've never heard of it, Jack's never heard of it. What is it? Are we supposed to—oh my God, is she necking an old man?"

Astrid mouths, "Necking?" and rolls her eyes. "Relax, grandpa. They do a lot more than 'necking'. And yeah, I've heard of it. There's a Lana Del Rey song about this movie."

"Lana Del Rey?"

Astrid and Merida groan at the same time. "Holy shit…"

And then a heated discussion follows in which they educate Hic on who Lana Del Rey is. I just sit and watch the movie. Black and white people moving around. Doing questionable things. It feels good to see how messed up other people are. Makes my problems seem small.

Another AU is popping up. With Hiccup in his white swim trunks, towel draped over his neck. Astrid tapping her fingernails on the countertop. Puddles on the tile are transparent. So my AU takes shape in the Lolita universe…

His old lady is a bad lady. Not really old, but old to him. Long-legged and oh-so glamorous with pinching curls. She is fire, alive and smoldering on the end of a cigarette. She's bad but he likes the way she holds his hand. Rounded nails digging into his palm. He's the light of her life and fire of her loins like that Lana Del Rey song that reminds him of his life. Students call him harlot, who even uses that term anymore? But they say it and use it, an old dish rag with greying lace. Wringing it over and over again over the porcelain sink. They shout it at him when he's at the polo match, sitting on the fence with his Aviators on. He looks over the top, rolling his eyes and popping the lollipop back in his mouth. Straight between his lips that taste like salt water. She would know. They're sitting poolside, basking in the evening sun that looks like an old penny. Kind of like her. White plastic chair creaking when she moves. Adjusting the one piece that hugs her in all the right places. Hiccup is at the edge of the pool, his white Speedo dripping with water. Smells like chlorine and fresh plants. The hydrangea bush drops its flowers into the deep end. It's been a wet day full of cold humidity, if there is such a thing. Goosebumps run up and down his arms, making him shiver. He has his legs in the shallows, the other half of him stretched out on the deck. Clear rays touching his body. Sharp ribs are visible beneath his sunburnt skin, papery thinness written upon by her fingers. He's inked. But the tattoos are invisible. More like a branding that tingles when she runs her hand through his hair. She whispers in his ear, calling him Scarlet, their little nickname.

Hiccup sighs and makes a water angel, waving his arms through the chlorinated puddles around his head. Today has been a boring day. School at the local private academy and hours by the pool. He's starting to prune. She doesn't like it when he prunes. He hears her footsteps on the stone. Never kneeling, because she kneels to no one, she bends over and kisses his forehead. Slow, dusted with martini salt and words from the book in her left hand. It fans her, the pages dotted with tiny drops. She feels the skin, sticky with sweat, and molds against its baby softness. No wrinkles, so young and fresh. Tender tulips buzzing with insects. The low fever and hum of butterflies. She closes her eyes and kisses her awkward rose. He is beautiful, thornless. Heart-shaped glasses on, she walks into the house. She's gone.

So he stands up again. He stretches his legs, cracking his shoulders and toes. She's peeking through the blinds. Thin arms slice the water. One, two, one, two. Body bathed in clear water, bubbles fringing the Speedo. Splayed fingers slice. Scalpels through flesh and bone and life. He tears the bright blue ripples apart. It's all blue with him. Blue beads in his bubble tea, blue roses on the mantelpiece, blue eyes watching from afar…

Actually, those are my eyes watching from afar. Because I'm the one on the couch, attempting a smile. Hiccup could be Lolita. Or in a more Japanese sense, a little shota with freckles on his cheeks. They keep talking about Lana Del Rey, then Merida scolds them for dripping all over the floor. Hiccup turns to me, drying his hair with the towel.

"On another note, tonight you really need to go back to your place. You, too, Merida. Tooth went to work today, so she's probably already home and waiting for you. It's been a fun weekend, but Astrid and I have some business to tend to."

Behind him, Astrid is pelvic thrusting.

Hiccup rolls his eyes. "I see you. And don't be perverted, we have to fix the light bulb in the bathroom, fix the fridge…"

"And then I'll show you some new MMA moves." She slaps him with her towel, making him jump. "No need to use euphemisms, baby."

Seeing Hiccup blush is always a treat. "S-Shut up. Just for that, you'll be the one changing the light bulb."

"Oh I would love to get my hand around some bulbs." Her evil laugh echoes off the walls. She's behind him, fingers dancing up his neck.

He's frozen for a moment. Eying her, taking deep breaths. "Ok, you're asking for it."

She screams when he picks her up. Holding her over his shoulder, a dragon carrying his virgin away. But we all know Astrid isn't a virgin. She was when she met Hiccup, though, so was he. That's their adorable romance story. They were each other's first. One and only.

He has a little trouble walking to the bedroom. All that muscle is heavy. I can see the tendons tensing in her thighs.

"Sorry, everyone, but Astrid is being a very bad girl." He can't open the door fast enough. "Merida, can you take Jack home?"

"Sure. You kids have fun." She stands up and stretches, shaking her red mane. "Come on, Jack."

"Right." The movie isn't over. I'll have to rent it sometime. "Hic, I almost forgot. Don't forget to stop by Aster's apartment. He's a good guy, you should invite him to our movie night."

He rolls his eyes. "All right. As long as you invite that Rapunzel girl."

"Oh, uh…"

"No 'uhs'. Just do it."

Astrid flicks his ear. "Just do me already, Hic. Open the damn door."

"Sorry, Astrid." He gives a wave. "Have a wonderful evening, Jack. See you at work tomorrow."

"Yeah. See ya." The door slams. Merida offers me her hand.

"Ready?"

I tell her to go down without me. I'll be there in a second. She stands at the end of the hallway, double doors propped open.

"I'm not leaving. But you take your time."

Rapunzel answers when I knock. Blonde hair stretched across her face. Smell of fried eggs is strong.

"Aster's showing me how to properly cook eggs."

My heart sinks into my stomach. "Really?"

"No." Smile, lean against the doorframe. "I just wanted to see your reaction."

Laughter feels good. "You're awful."

A shrug. "I try. So, what's up?"

I shrug back. I guess we're not talking about the kiss. Fine by me. "I, uh, I just wanted to invite you to movie night this Thursday. Me and my friends do it every week. And since you're a friend, I figured I'd ask."

"What're you watching?"

"Harry Potter."

Her eyes narrow. Teeth tug at her lip. "Which one?"

"The Half-Blood Prince."

She nods. "Ok then, I'll come. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Why does she make me so nervous? Oh yeah, I forgot about our incident in the parking lot. I run my hand through my hair. "Ok, well I'll see you later. Bye."

I'm halfway down the hall when she stops me. "Wait. There's something I want to say. Come back."

Back at the door. Eggs strong. Paint strong. Her eyes glisten. "So, I want to take you to get a tattoo sometime."

How the hell did she know? Can she read minds? I laugh it off. "Why? I never said I wanted a tattoo, blondie."

"I know. But I saw you eying Aster's tattoos last night. Mine, too. You want one, it's obvious."

Man, she's good. "You got me, Rapunzel. It's weird that we've only known each other for one day."

"Yeah, feels like forever doesn't it?" Her smile makes me warm. Fingers on my arm. A fleeting second. "Besides, I'm good at knowing what people want. I'll take you tomorrow, ok? You can get whatever you want, and maybe you'll get other stuff. Like answers about Pitch."

"Wait, what?" Not this again.

She grabs a lock of hair. "I told you I'd help you find him, remember? Just trust me."

Trust her…I'm not sure. Standing there in her denim shorts. Crop top hugging, her belly button peeking through. This could be a trap. But I don't care.

"Fine. I trust you."

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Bye." Her wave is like a little kid. Leaving her behind at daycare. I've never liked daycares. They give you the illusion of safety.

Merida won't ask me about Rapunzel. She knows that Rapunzel is a part of my problem. So no questions. She drives with the radio on. Just high enough to hear the lyrics. Hiccup always gets onto her because she drives a Hummer.

"It sucks gas. You're killing the environment, Mer."

She'll stick her fingers in her ears. "Not listening! I don't care!"

We drive in silence. She's humming along to One Republic. Their songs are always interesting. This one's about counting stars instead of dollars. Too bad no one listens to that.

Driving by the broken down middle school makes me think of the time I got beat up. It's sudden, rushing into my brain.

They used to hit me. The boys in the schoolyard with their fat boy bodies and angry boy fists…

It happened on a Tuesday, right after school.

A punch to the eye makes some people mad. Others cry, water everywhere. I let the water rush over me. Bent at the waist, Batman boxers too big and ballooning out. Little rivers flowed down my back. Bat signals soaked through in no time, all of them plastered against my spine. Down to my pelvis, sharp ridges and scabbed skin. Scabs fell off. Some were picked, others ripped. I would watch them spiral down the drain every Wednesday night. Rivers flowed faster, down towards those parts that turned into squishy grapes if I'd been in the pool for too long. The part that felt hot when I looked at normal things like cute girls and panties and wet socks. And not so normal things like Spiderman comics and phones and that kid with the grey hands and awkward eyes.

Awkward in a good way.

But I could think about him later. Or not think about him, for that matter. How he walked with the shiny backpack pulled up high. Bouncing on his back pockets, if he had any real back pockets because he was always wearing slacks. Crinkles riding up and down the pressed pleats. Just how those horses move to the beat, bursting when the rider taps his heels. So many crinkles running along the inside leg. Bunching at places that made me wonder if other people ever felt hot.

After getting punched, I was hot all over. Not in the good places, in the hurtful places. Each temple and nostril, all of them bruising, blood flowing like the water down my back. The schoolyard faucets were meant for the garden club to fill up their buckets. The football team to cool off, wet their towels and smack each other. I got beat up there. I found the handle without looking. Shock of cold water keeping me awake, making me angry.

Boys yelled behind me.

"You finally had enough, Overland?"

"Piece of shit, get up!"

"Lemme beat the hell out of you again!"

A hand gripped my boxers. "I want these. They're nice. Take 'em off, faggot."

Nails against my skin, crooked, stained. I couldn't cry. Not like that. Kneeling on the ground with a stupid hand on my ass and laughter in my ears. Tugging, laughing, tearing, holding, shrieking, throwing against the faucet and bleeding and tugging back again. Gashes above my eyes. Unknown attacker number one threw me against the faucet. Second one pulled my pants down. Soaking wet, sliding down my thighs.

"Come on, Overland, Batman is my favorite superhero."

They held me against the faucet. It was burning hot. Eyes streaming. Each cackle was a needle in my neck. Someone took my boxers off. Brown leather belt was ripped from the loops. They wrapped it around my front and held tight. Pinching me, turning me red like an apple in Fall. Deep within the leaves and trying to hide from all those hands. They were fast. They were mean. They were painful to touch, to hear, their laughter clawing deep into my spine as the bleachers laid cold and wet on the turf. The soccer field dripping, storm clouds slowly leaving. Goal posts stood white and silent. No one would help me. There was no one there. And even if there was…

I gasped, face against the concrete. A pair of cleats next to my head. Muddy, a four-leaf clover tied around one of the spikes. What luck. I reached for it, blood mixing with rainwater, a few tears, too. It was cold that day. It was cold every day. I cut my teeth on my own tongue. Trying to hold back the tears and curses. They would never have the satisfaction. Yellow sun staring down like a spotlight. Just go away, will ya? There was no one there to watch. Just go away. Nothing to see…nothing at all.

One of the boys backed up, breathing hard. His knuckles were covered in blood. "You're boring, Overland."

"Yeah, were outta here." Another one gave me a final kick. Right in the ribs. "Thanks for the underwear, faggot. Hope you don't get too cold walking your naked ass home."

Yeah, that day wasn't fun. I had to get stitches, scaring my mother even more than usual. My sister cried that day. A lot.

Merida must have noticed the tears because she's offering me a tissue. Why does everyone keep tissues in their car?

"You're acting like Tooth when she's on her period. All moody and stuff."

I laugh and wipe my eyes. "And you don't act like that once a month?"

"Not really. Tooth says I'm actually nicer." She's suddenly touching my nose. "You've got an eyelash there. Hold still."

I feel like a kid talking to their mother. The nice kind of mother that'll give you hugs. But then she'll turn into a badass, kicking butt and growling. Bear-like.

The eyelash is held in front of my face. "Make a wish."

"Ok." Closing my eyes, I blow it away. Wishes are secrets, big secrets I keep in the box beneath my bed. I'll tell you when it comes true.

Merida drops me off in front of my apartment building. Her hand lingers on my arm.

"Take care of yourself, Jack. And when you want to talk, just call."

"Thanks. I will. But don't worry about me, Mer. I'm fine, really."

Her gaze is a bs-detector. She knows I'm lying, but whatever.

The elevator is waiting for me. Not many people live in this building. That's fine with me. It dings, the inside is cold and grey. Like someone I know. Someone I never want to see. Someone I am dying to see again. There's something sticking out from under my door. A letter. Black handwriting, too familiar. Dear God, don't let it be from him. But it is. I kneel in front of the door, holding the letter, wishing that I would just disappear.


	6. Treatment Stage 5: Take Temperature

Let me not talk about the letter.

Or the tears.

Or the fear sinking into my bones.

Because none of these things matter. The numbness, curling my toes like Novocain, sagging my eyelids as I lay face down in bed. It doesn't matter. Just the memories. There are a few that stick out in my brain. Poking like stray branches at the bone and pink stuff all swirling in whirlpools around my eyes. Even with my face in the pillow, the world is still spinning.

A regret:

Sunday. It was a gap between days, not a day itself. Right after my night with Pitch, right before my day at school. Lying in bed, naked and cold because the heater was broken. Again. He was gone, but I could still feel him all over. Hands branding my bare skin. In total darkness, feeling the black tattoos raised and pulsing with lightening. Maybe that's why I love tattoos so much. Cold. Hot. The thermostat dropped a million times last night. His body a marble statue that I see in a museum. Come to life. Come to find me. Get me. Running fingers across my legs. And the goosebumps, holy crap the goosebumps that prickled and devoured every inch. Eating me, making my eyes rolls. I grabbed at the sheets. Fists trembled in the ice cold room. Hard lines bent at every angle, drawings on a ripped canvas. Pitch was electric. My body wracked with pain. And then it was Sunday and I was regret.

Regret incarnate.

Our second time still hurt like hell. Burning in my stomach that lasted into morning. My mom knocked twice before opening the door. I felt like Gregor in the Metamorphosis.

I pulled the comforter over me, just to make sure she couldn't tell I was naked.

She said, "Jack…you've been in bed all morning. Are you feeling ok?"

And I said…what did I say? Something unimportant. Maybe a nod, a shrug, something that convinced her I was just tired.

"I was up all night…studying."

"On a Saturday? Come on Jack, I know you better than that." Her laugh sounded like rain, falling slow, keeping me warm.

I rolled onto my stomach, trying not to groan. "Seriously, I was studying. I have a big test tomorrow."

"What subject?"

"English." The first thing that popped into my mind. Lying to her made me feel like shit. But what was I supposed to do? I could have said, yes, I was tired, but only because I was up all night doing it with my childhood friend who may or may not be a clinical psychopath. Oh and by the way, Mom, I may or may not be gay. Conclusion still pending.

And as I lay there, my thoughts drifting even slightly towards Pitch, I felt my face redden. Uncontrollable spasms in my legs, a shiver up my spine.

"Honey, you ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. There was a, uh, fly or something in the sheets. Must have left my window open all night."

"Yeah, you did."

Good. I covered for the open window, too. Lying was, and still is, a skill of mine. Pitch's habits rubbing off on me. Clumps of fur stuck to a tree.

My mother's footsteps light and airy. Face buried in the pillow, I listened as she shut the window and sighed. Pitch's fingers had gripped that glass hours ago. Imagine him slipping out, a shadow, bare feet nuzzled in the grass. Long fingers leaving prints that no one will ever see. Shit, those fingers. They were still there. All over my body. His ghost stayed behind.

I was praying that Mom would go away. Because I was everything at that moment. Guilty because I was lying and she was so nice with her soft smile and brown eyes. Tiny crow's feet framing each one. A perfect painting in a museum. Angry because he had trapped me, again. Only stupid mice fall into the mousetrap twice. Guess I'm a stupid mouse. Mortified because…because what the hell had I done? Sick because Pitch had been inside more than just my head and I wanted to puke. Sad because I had become a vandalized house. Bursting, biting, I just wanted to go outside and scream. Pounding in my head as if he was still holding me down. That sick, pleasurable nausea that comes from doing horrible things. Like pulling off a dragonfly's wings or cheating on your girlfriend in a summer fling. All horrible things. Right? Your body says different. And it wants…no, it threatens to explode if you ignore it. Sweaty palms sticking to the Spiderman sheets. Defiled. Muscles throbbing. Spasms and empty spaces that cried in a voice that was not my own. Physical pain surmounting, his words echoing in my ears. "I thrashed you, Jack." It all had to be kept secret. And then I realized that I wanted Pitch. I needed him. And I wanted to cry because he finally achieved his goal. He controlled me.

Mom's footsteps faded completely. I could sense her standing over me. The shadow of a hand across my neck. But she decided not to.

This time, her voice was gentle. "Just sleep as long as you want. It takes a lot out of you. Studying, that is."

And then she left. I still think that she knew. Somehow, somewhere deep inside her brain. When I did get out of bed, the bruises black and blooming on my legs, I noticed it on the window sill.

A scrap of fabric from a ripped shirt. Jet black. Pitch's shirt, the button-up with the red collar.

Since it's deep, dark confession time, I'll tell you something else. It's not like there's anyone waiting for me in this dark apartment. Just me on my bed, too numb to cry. So I'll you about the time I tried ecstasy. Not the best idea. Pitch and I took it in our secret hideout. The broken down bed in the middle of the woods. I ended up wandering away and he lay sprawled across the leaves. Panting, sweating, watching invisible things in the trees. After the incident, he told me he afraid. I was gone. Why couldn't he find me?

Maybe because I was trudging through the forest. Wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. Black trees rising high. A museum full of ancient sculptures. I was nothing but a guest. Brown leaves crunched beneath shoes. There was something about the cold heat. It slipped into my veins and I was seeing things. Warped floors that rippled with each step. Tingling in the palms, the flannel shirt itching. So I took it off and dropped it. Then my pants went, then my boxers. There I went, walking naked between the black trees. Body whiter than usual in the partial darkness. Half n' half, sweet n' low. Filled up inside. Wet stickiness weighing me down. Leaves broke off and whispered. A tree knot grew eyes and lips.

What is this? The blue and green pills in my pocket felt heavy. One of them had a question mark on it , the other, a butterfly. I might have taken one while walking naked through the woods. Pitch bought these from someone. God knows where he got the money. Goosebumps running up and down my arms. Running along other places, too.

Running like dogs and bicycles. Shadows moved across wooden corridors. The world stretched out, hands grabbing at me.

There was an abnormal amount of pink carnations beneath my feet. They came suddenly, as if summoned, and blanketed the ground in a layer of pale pink. Stems poked up out of the dirt. Their veined petals unfurled, pieces of paper in the misty sunlight. Literal pieces of paper. I saw one covered in loopy handwriting. Another dripping with black ink.

Dripping just like me.

There was blood on my face for some reason. I think Pitch had accidentally scratched me. No big deal. The blood always dried. It cracked when I tried to frown. Passing a meadow that had been simply overrun by flowers. The charred remains of a house were there, skeletal bones held together by the weeds and thick green stems. Cold hot breeze made the tulips sway.

I did not so much as glance at the little pink garden of ash and time. I walked. Exposed, a Polaroid picture. Pitch on my mind. Where were those scary gold eyes? Hiding behind bushes, bending back the stems with long, grey fingers. I saw the eyes in tree branches. My entire body drenched with sweat and fog, I stared up at them, panting. Strands of hair pressed against the forehead, not baby soft, but pubescent rough. Wavering, the world spinning slowly around me. I kept walking.

I was oblivious to a lot of things. Always so focused on what was right in front of me, on that photograph that was placed in front of my face. Keep going, eyes blind. Dead animals started falling from trees, exploding out of the earth. Another animal came into view, then another. An armadillo torn down the middle. A possum covered in its own guts. A smear of blood and feathers, presumably a bird. This parade of dead animals continued for a few feet, or maybe a mile.

It was…strange. There was no one else there. No hunters in their bright orange vests. I hadn't killed anything, so it wasn't my doing. Entrails spilled out across the leaves. Trails of blood drawn across the ground, almost as if the animals had been dragged. Soon, the dead animals were nothing but chunks of meat scattered on the forest floor. Puddles of blood pooled on the ground. I heard a slight sloshing sound as I walked. Geez, it was like someone plowed through them with a garbage truck.

What person could cause that kind of damage?

I kept going, a strange feeling creeping down my spine. The size of the animals increased. From small birds to a full-grown deer, its antlers broken into pieces.

There was so much blood.

I knew it was just a hallucination or maybe I didn't and I heard the squelching of sneakers and I felt sick and hot because Pitch was watching through the hole in my mind. White knuckles clenched into fists, eyes stared straight ahead. I just wanted to get out of there. Taking the blue pill was a mistake. But I was just so confused and the trees were so dark. Naked and alone. Stiff and sweating. It felt better when I clenched my teeth. Lying in a leaf pile, I rubbed them all over. Dressed in brown, orange, and red, I closed my eyes. I took beatings like the blue and green pills.

Fire in my muscles and bones. Bruises erupting here and there. It hurt like hell. I curled up. Leaves fringing my pelvis, trailing down the lines of a boy who had little to eat. Sharp ribs visible beneath scarred skin, papery thinness written upon by no one. Only hands that wish to tear. Dreaming deep would be nice. But sleeping there was stupid, just stupid. I stood up, leaves sticking to my skin, and walked away. The pain could wait.

That was it, my first time on any kind of drug. Stupid. Idiotic. Naïve.

When Pitch found me, I was so afraid. So pathetic. Long grey fingers made me feel safe. But that's all in the past.

In the present, I am motionless on my bed. Inside, everything moves so fast. You would never be able to tell. I could be dead. Closed blinds still. Fan silent overhead. Sense deprivation at its finest. I've read the letter about twenty times. Know it by heart, by each line dripping in black ink.

"Dear Jack,

Hope this letter finds you well.

This is unconventional, I know, slipping a letter under your door. Typically, I just wait for the mail, but this is different.

It has come to my attention that a former employee of mine has come into contact with you. How do I know? Well, I have my secrets. She's the blabbering type, so chances are she has already told you how we are acquainted. And honestly, is it really a surprise? You knew I was never going to be doctor like you or someone who actually contributes to society. Please. But that's what you love about me, isn't it? I remember your eyes, the way you looked at me from the opposite side of the glass. Oh come on, Jack, you must remember. After they sentenced me and you came to visit. That was a very special goodbye, you know that.

And even though you refused to testify and tell them how much you loved me, how it was all an accident, I still forgive you. Because you know how much I love you, Jack.

I am sorry that I have not visited you. Being released from prison has given me new…priorities. Like making sure I am good enough to finally be with you. We've talked about this before, in many of our letters. How inadequate I feel. But I am a relatively powerful man now. Sure, it isn't the most decent line of work, but does it really matter? I have money and power and the ability to give you anything you want. I am no longer the convict, the dropout, the failure with a mental problem. I am alive. King to some, feared by many.

This letter is a formal invitation for you to come and take your place beside me. As melodramatic as it all sounds, a king cannot rule alone. How ironic it is, I was a criminal going into prison, and I am an even bigger criminal coming out.

Speaking of coming out. It is time you're honest with yourself. I hate to see you suffer, I really do. And you're suffering, I know you are. Come and be with me, remember why you loved me. There's nothing to be ashamed of, Jack.

I'll be waiting for you this Friday, eight PM, at the movie theater. You know the one, the Regal a few minutes from your apartment. I've gotten us tickets to go see Frozen. I know it's a children's movie, but you should like it, the name itself suits the both of us.

Sincerely,

Pitch"

Not too short, not too long. Just a simple letter that makes me want to bang my head against the wall. So much for needing Rapunzel to find Pitch. But I can't tell her. No. I should let her help me. This case can't be so open and shut. A door slamming in the dark. My apartment is darker than ever. Bedroom black, the alarm clock blinking on the side table. Twelve-ten AM. I must have lost power last night. And the family room is black, the single armchair in front of a flat screen. Kitchen swathed in black, every cabinet and every tile. It's pretty messy. When does a surgeon have time to clean?

The bathroom is the only lit place. I'm squinting beneath the fluorescents. Steam rolls around my ankles, creeps up the mirror that's covered in fingerprints. The water has been on for too long.

Outside. Freezing.

Inside. Warm.

Things I like about the shower: droplets tracing rivers, hands running through hair, bubbles on fingertips, bubbles floating, clear and rainbow colored, sting of water on skin, closing eyes, opening eyes, all blurry, digging my pinky toe into the drain, slick walls, still cold, steam in my mouth, my nose, my ears, warmth, safety, the taste of conditioner that accidentally slips through my lips.

Things I don't like about the shower: the chill if you move too far away from the shower head, the term "shower head", the need to close your eyes when shampooing, someone may be watching, accidentally slipping, stepping on the Dial soap bar, conditioner stinging my eyes, steam clogging my throat, fogged mirrors, dark mold, hair knots, the feeling I get deep inside.

A latent desire for him.

And my brain makes a fantasy. Despite my inner voice screaming, "What the hell? Stop it, stop it!" No one cares. Pitch enters the shower. Comes up from behind. Arms encircle me, he's on me like…like…

Like a tree hugger on a tree.

A fat kid on ice cream.

A gymnast on the beam.

Do you ever notice how they walk all over those things?

So I'm the beam. He's the gold medalist .Toes placed precariously, wrapped around me. Calloused feet are sandpaper. Each step is slow. Smash heel against me, then arch, then tiptoe. Rocking over me. My spine and bones. Knuckles kneed into my back. All of the valleys and peaks, he finds every one. And then he digs his fingers into them and I'm moaning into the glass. Of course, none of this is real. But I wish it was, oh God, I wish it was.

I look at my dripping reflection.

The first time I did ecstasy comes rushing back.

Pitch found me wandering. Out of the forest came a figure. Naked and bleeding, I walked out. I was a ghost, pale and shuddering. Pitch's face turned scarlet, so unlike him. Fingers pulling at his shorts, trying to keep them up. Not that anyone was trying to pull them down. It's just…

Those eyes were exposing. My eyes. He told me that all the time. Blue like plague. Cold and aware.

And I thought his eyes were unsettling. Awkward and gold. Wider than the sun.

We blinked in unison. As if we had never met before. Goosebumps forming along arms and legs, and other places, too. Exposing, unsettling, cold, awkward, gold, aware. Flinching as the sun set and the shadows flailed all over our bodies. Bodies wet, dripping, sheened in sweat and tears. One of us gasped, couldn't tell who, and took a step. One of us opened our mouth.

I fog the bathroom mirror with my breath.

I roll back into bed and pray for sweet relief. Because shit, the pain of wanting is terrible. It's night, the last glimmers of light vanishing beneath the blinds. Dust motes spinning into tiny, black dots. Pitch's letter is crumpled on the floor. It should be in the garbage can. But it's not and I'm tired and my room is fading. Please, Pitch, leave me alone tonight.

He listened to me for once. I wish the patients would listen, too. When I tell them to fight and live. Today is a boring day at the hospital. Open folders, close them, wash my hands, wear my gloves, operate on people that look like crossword puzzles. One, down: lung transplant. Five, down: blood clot. I fix them both and tell the families. A small family, a large one overflowing in the waiting room. Tears mean…nothing to me now. What the hell is wrong with me? This girl, early twenties maybe, is standing in front of me, crying and thanking me for saving her mother. But tears turn clear on her face. Fluorescents make them disappear. Spattering of freckles on her arm looks like paint. Feet small and flat in a pair of Toms, inanimate objects. She is a mannequin. Her eyes could be glass, my eyes could be black holes. I nod and shake her hand. Then her father's hand. He's wearing black sandals. Standing in the middle of the waiting room, surrounded by happy people. Motionless. A little kid in Converse hightops sits on a chair. Swinging his legs back and forth. He can't understand what's going on. Someone almost fell asleep forever, but they're ok. All he needs to know. Eyes wide, he watches me.

"You're the doctor man?"

"Yeah."

"Your face is scary."

I stare at him for a good ten seconds. "Sorry. It's been a long day."

Why am I explaining myself to this kid?

"That's ok. If I were a doctor, I wouldn't smile, either."

"I can smile." I break out into this ridiculous grin. He laughs.

"That's funny." Swinging his legs, holding the edge of the seat. His eyes sparkle. "Oh yeah, thanks for helping my grandma."

"You're welcome."

Small smile, dimples in the corners of his cheeks.

The silence that follows lasts into the afternoon. I see his tiny face whenever I blink. I've forgotten how much I like little kids. They have so much fun. Throwing snowballs in winter, building snowmen and skating across ponds. Damnit, now I'm thinking about ice skating and the time I almost died. That little boy in the waiting room had eyes like my sister.

Holding a cup of cold coffee, I never even take a sip. Merida sees me in the break room. Free from the blue cap, her hair is wild and frizzy.

"Oh hey, Jack. You never come in here. Good to see ya." She sits atop the counter, right next to the coffee maker. "Having a good day?"

I shrug. "No one's died."

"Always nice to hear. But are you having a good day, Jack?" Without looking, she grabs a mug and pours herself some coffee. "Not witnessin' death doesn't constitute an enjoyable day."

"Constitute? Really? You've been hanging around Hiccup too much."

A smile from behind her cup. "Don't be a smartass."

"It's my specialty."

"Is spilling coffee on yourself also your specialty?"

"Huh?" Looking down, I notice my scrubs are drenched. Wonderful. "Shit, I'm an idiot."

"No." She slams her cup down so hard it shakes. "No pity party. You're a surgeon for Pete's sake, not an idiot."

"Ok, ok, I'm sorry." Rolling my eyes, I wipe a napkin across my abdomen. Not like it does any good. "Geez, Merida. You're on my case today."

"Someone has to be." Her winks always make me laugh. It's slow and clumsy. Almost winking with both eyes.

The urge to laugh is almost unbearable. More coffee sloshes to the floor. Dammit, I should just throw it all away. Cracked china in the garbage can, along with everything else in my life. Oh stop it, Jack. Enough of your angsty teenage bullshit. Like Merida said, I'm a surgeon for Pete's sake.

I am a surgeon.

I can walk down these halls, eyes blank and cold. I can stand in the middle of a waiting room with my arms crossed. I can never cry. I can never smile. But I can wish and wish and wish that I could. I can hide in the bathroom and act like a baby. Something I do quite often. When someone is hurt, when someone dies. Or whenever I am thinking about Pitch. Which is happening a lot today.

Surgeons aren't really supposed to take breaks. I'm in here for no reason. Before leaving the break room, Merida hops off the counter and gives me a hug. Slower than usual, her arms circling me. Red curls are soft like cotton candy. I think of her and Tooth, the perfect confection of sugar and hot sauce.

"Try to have a good day, ok, Jack?"

I nod. "Sure."

There isn't much more I can say. Promises are hard to keep.

"Good. Now I have to get back to work." Her fingers linger on my back as she walks away. She's still worried about me.

Guilt floods my mine. I'm not supposed to be like this, be a burden. Her footsteps are slow. Her fingers are heavy as she tucks her hair back into the net. Everything crawling to a halt. And all because of me. Me and my stupid way of dragging everyone down around me. Pitch tied a brick to my ankle. He threw me in the cold, black water. And I pulled my friends down. Now Merida rolls her shoulders back, wondering why she feels so exhausted. A hard day at work? No. Problems with Tooth? No. I know what it is. It's me. Me and my delusions. Something tells me these delusions will never end. Not until I see Pitch again.

Hours drag on. Surgeries sprint by and I hardly remember them. At least nobody died. My day is almost over. By now, my head is pounding and my stomach is killing me. I want to leave but I don't want to go home. Not that an apartment is much of a house, especially my apartment. Just darkness that creeps across me. It swallows me whole. I'm paralyzed. So don't go, not yet. Walk aimlessly through the hospital. Floors of dead people. Floors of dying people. Merida would remind me that the living are there, too. But their voices are drowned out by the cries of death. Inside, my inner voice is screaming. Take a right down the hall, then a left. Looking down the walls of white and floors of white and people dressed in white and—

Tooth?

Yep, it's her. There's no mistaking that tuft of rainbow colored hair. Or those glasses or that dark mocha skin. I stand for a moment, blinking in the ugly fluorescents of the hospital. Doesn't matter. She looks good under any lighting. Stop it, Jack. She's with Merida, she's with Merida. And even if she wasn't, she's not into dudes. I raise my eyebrows. But maybe, just maybe, she's bi? Just like you, Jack. That inner voice smirks at me. Flashing images of Rapunzel and Aster at light speed. Hard muscles, soft hair, black tattoos, white teeth, jagged lines racing down bodies, smooth curves dancing in an empty room, and the blue hair and green eyes boring, waving, falling, spinning all over me and my lifeless form. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to discern which one turns me on more. Both…both of them do. Who has hard muscles and soft hair? Who is made of angular constellations and smooth flower petals? Pitch. He is both. He is everything.

No, wait. Stop it! Groaning, I run my hands down my face. "No, no, no!"

"Jack?"

Crap, she's noticed me. Back in reality, beneath the ugly lights, Tooth is staring at me. Someone hits the pause button and then her eyes widen. Candy hardening in the cold. She grabs at the hem of her skirt. Fingers curling into fabric. The nails are bitten down to the quick.

"J-Jack…what are you doing here?"

"Uh, I work here."

"That's right, that's right." Her laugh reminds me of a drunk hummingbird. Even the way she walks. Rocking back and forth, tripping on her own feet.

"Tooth, what's wrong?" I take a step forward, my hands struggling at my side. Should they move up? Hug her, touch her arm? They give up, turn limp.

"Nothing. Why would anything be wrong?" She takes a step back. That kind of hurts. I should stay where I am. No one wants to be comforted by a basket case.

"Well, you're in a hospital. People don't usually come here just for kicks."

"Oh yeah, I'm in a hospital, that's right." Another laugh. She twirls a strand of hair until it turns white.

"Tooth, you suck at lying."

"Who's lying? I told you, everything's fine."

"Seriously, there's no way you're evading this." I sigh and lean against the wall. "I know Mer says I'm bad at reading body language, but a monkey could tell that you're upset."

Laughter is starting to sound hysteric. "Well I would hope so, monkeys are very intelligent creatures."

Ok, this is getting ridiculous. I shouldn't be annoyed, but I am. Just spit it out you gorgeous, rainbow girl. With your sparkling eyes and turned in toes. Everything about you reminding me of a fairy. So spit it out already, you little tooth fairy. I feel like shit and want to go…

Not home, because I don't have one. I want to go away from here. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Hopefully she doesn't notice my clenched fists.

She looks up at me, smiling just a little. "A monkey could tell that you're upset, too."

"Well yeah, I am."

"Why?"

Oh no, no, no. Do not try to turn this around on me. You're the one wandering the halls of the hospital. You're the one who chewed her nails into oblivion. You're the one trying to laugh the pain away. I want to say all of these things, but I can't. The words are too hard to form. So I just look over her head and say, "Because there's something wrong. I can tell."

"Jack…"

"Tell me, Tooth."

"It's nothing, really."

"Tooth, just tell me, ok?" My teeth are gritted, my eyes ready to fall out of my skull.

She glances at the floor, her face reddening. "I'm here for chemo, Jack."

…

…what, what, what? I just, I can't. I can't listen to this. What did she even say? Watch her lips move. Hear nothing. Just silence. And more and more silence. It devours the walls, the halls. My bones, my muscles, everything. Tooth's bones…are they being devoured, too?

I stare at the blank spot over her head. "What?"

"Chemotherapy." She takes a deep breath. "I have—"

"Don't say it. Please, don't say it." I take a step back, hitting the wall. A flinch, a gasp, a crumbling in the knees. It all means nothing. These words floating in my brain.

Shock. Terror. Guilt. What. The. Hell. Falling. Dying. Crying. Black. Red. White. Simple. Colors. That. Become. So. Evil.

Because tumors are black. So are funeral shrouds, so is death. Blood is red, and when it no longer flows it hardens like stone. Hospital gowns are white. Sheets are white, walls and floors are white. Sterility itself is white. Lights are white, like the light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. Don't , Tooth. Don't you dare tell me, tell Merida…

"Does Merida know?"

"Oh God, no." She shakes her head, her hands trembling. "You can't tell her. Please, please don't tell her."

My head is shaking, too. I stare at nothing. "How long?"

"About a month."

"You still have your hair."

"Yeah. I asked, but the doctors don't know when I'll start losing it."

I bite my lip. It won't stop quivering. "You have such pretty hair…"

Her hand touches mine. A forced smile. "Jack, it's ok."

"No, it's not ok!"

"But they caught it early." Fingers squeeze my palm. Is she really comforting me? I should be comforting her. "It's not a death sentence. I'll be fine, don't worry about me."

"You shouldn't have to go through this. It's not fair, it's not fair." Head won't stop shaking, lips won't stop quivering. I stare at the floor. Feel her skin against mine. So cold, so sterile. This hospital is already rubbing off on her. What I say next, I don't know if it's directed at Tooth or the memory of my sister. "I-I wish I could take your place."

"Jack…that's so…I don't even know what to say." Her smile softens. Hiccup threw it in with his ocean scented fabric softener. "You're a very nice person. You really care, that's what I can tell. And Jack…oh, Jack, don't cry."

I can't help it. The tears come anyway. Dripping down my face. It's so embarrassing. Tooth has cancer and I'm the one crying. I'm sliding down the wall and Tooth might be dying. Tooth's staying strong and I'm not even trying.

"Bad things happen. But I'll get through it, I'll be fine. I promise." Standing on tiptoe, she hugs me. Face against my chest. I can feel her tears through my scrubs.

Time breaks apart when bad things happen. I don't know how long the hug lasts. All I know is that when it's over, her imprint is left on my clothes. She floats down the hall like a ghost.

No, not a ghost. She isn't dead yet. She won't ever be dead from this.

So she floats like a hummingbird. Faster and faster because "Merida might see me, and I'm not ready to tell her yet. Don't tell her, Jack. Please."

I won't tell her. It isn't my place to tell. But now I have another secret locked inside my little black box. The one I keep under my bed. Sometimes I wish I could live in ignorance. My inner voice laughs at this. Tells me how stupid I am. When I was younger, I wanted to know so much. Live within the pages of my medical books, breathe the crisp, clear air that surgeons breathe. Rise above it all and watch from someplace else. I wanted that so bad. Now I am there, in a place where knowledge seems to come to me. Not happy knowledge, not useful knowledge. Just broken pieces that taste of ash. I am told of the things I cannot change. And what's the point of that?

This question will never be answered. It pulses in the back of my skull as I drive home. Stuck at a red light, the day replays itself. Great, just what I need. The little boy's dimples. The coffee stain on my scrubs. Tooth standing in the hallway. Ugly fluorescents. White hospital gowns. Black tumors and black blood. Hardened in the crevice of the concrete, in the folds of my pants, in the grooves of my palms. The human body holds so much blood. When the surgeons cut her open, they better be careful. Hold her together with gentle hands. Maybe I should volunteer to work on her. Maybe I should turn this car around, drive back to the hospital, and save her now. Radiation will make her sick. Those trembling fingers will pull out clumps of green and yellow. It's not fair. I wish she could take the cancer from her chest and hand it to me. I would force it down my throat without a second thought. I've already died once.

HOOOONNNKKKKKK!

I jump. The driver behind me is leaning on the horn. Oh, the light's green. Shut up, asshole, I've had a hard day. Tooth's had a harder day, a harder month than I'll ever have. I am guilt when I pull into the parking lot of my apartment building. I am shame when I step into the elevator. When I turn the corner and see Rapunzel sitting against my door, I am speechless.

Leaning back, eyes locked on the ceiling. What's so interesting about the ceiling I'll never know. Her flannel shirt is oversized. Purple and black stripes, rips all up and down the arms. Gold hair falls every which way, like she just woke up. It's a hot look, I won't lie. Those knee length socks show off her sexy calves.

"Rapunzel?"

She nods in my direction. "Sup?"

"You're joking, right?"

"No way. I can sound hip and cool if I want to." Her grin is wider than the sun. "Have a good day at work?"

"I'm here for chemo, Jack."

"Yeah, it was fine."

She cocks her head. "Fine…fine is boring. Did something happen?"

"Uh, no. It was good. Great actually." I am not talking about this. "But why are you here? I mean, it's nice to see you and everything, but do you need something?"

"No not really. But you need something." Her wink is a lot different than Merida's. It makes my spine all tingly.

I laugh awkwardly. "What would that be?"

"A tattoo, remember? I told you yesterday that we would go and get you one."

"Oh, that." Damn, I forgot about my promise. But if Tooth can promise to stay alive, I can get a tattoo. I roll my eyes, Hiccup-style. "Yeah, yeah, I remember. I didn't think you'd really hold me to it."

"Of course I would." She stands up, flipping her hair. "You're not scared of a little tattoo are you?"

"No. That's stupid."

Her laughter bounces off the walls. "You're scared, you're scared! The big time surgeon is afraid of a tiny needle!"

"You are a horrible person."

"Now you don't think that." She smiles at me, eyes shut tight. Hands behind her back, she hops up to me like a bunny rabbit. I think of Aster for some reason.

"So when are we going? Now?"

"Mhmm." Hand grabs mine. "Go change. You can't wear scrubs to a tattoo parlor."

"Crap, I really wanted to wear these."

I smirk.

She smirks.

It's a smirking contest.

When I go to unlock my door, I'm suddenly frozen. There is darkness behind this door. Nothing but blackness. Pitch Black lingers behind the layers of wood and paint. A letter that I cannot crinkle. A shower full of shameful fantasies. I'm afraid that Rapunzel will see all of my secrets.

"Go on, Jack. I won't spy on you or anything. I promise." Her voice is small.

Without looking at her, I turn the handle. Don't look, Punzie, it will scare you, I know it. She waits outside while I change in the dark. His eyes watch me. Small and gold. I saw a raccoon in the middle of the night once. It kind of looked like this. Except those eyes didn't horrify me. They watch me undress. I can almost hear his voice.

"Oh Jack, you look so sexy. Look at those long legs, that chest whiter than the moon. It sends a shiver down my spine. So hot, so cold. And what goes better than cold and dark?"

"Shut up."

Teeth gritted, I step into my jeans. Seriously, I feel violated in my own apartment. This is ridiculous. Rapunzel is very patient outside. She never says a word.

I press my lips against the door. "Hold on, I'm almost ready."

"Take your time."

Shit, she's so nice. Too nice, actually. I go faster, grabbing a random shirt and throwing it on. Pitch laughs inside my brain.

"A long sleeved V-neck, how nice. I would rip that V-neck with my fingers, tear it all the way down to your navel. I'd run my hands up and down your chest, all over that rock hard abdomen of yours. It's a little softer than it used to be, but I still love it. I still want to run my tongue all over it."

I feel like Sam Winchester in Supernatural. Pitch is my Lucifer, whispering to me in the night. My Lucifer does not sing Stairway to Heaven. He harasses me while turning my face red. I don't want him to make me blush, but he does. Even when he's not here.

There. I'm ready. Before I leave, I throw up in the bathroom. This is becoming a regular thing for me. Questioning it should be in my nature. After all, I question my life, my job, the moon. But this "is what it is" as Astrid would say. I've said it before and I'll say it again. Pitch makes me sick.

Rapunzel notices that I'm not feeling well. She looks up at me, eyes squinted. "You look whiter than usual. Like you've seen a ghost? Yeah, a ghost."

I just shrug. "I'm fine, let's go."

Today has turned into an episode of Supernatural. From the phantom voices to the constant questions of "You ok?" and the typical response, "I'm fine, I'm fine." Hopefully, no one gets possessed by a demon today.

Driving to the tattoo parlor takes forever. Rapunzel props her feet up on the dash. Bare toes are covered in dirt. Prints all over the windshield, crumbs all over the floor. She's eating a Quaker Oat's granola bar.

"This is so fun. I never go out like this." Toes wiggle against the glass. "Can I turn on the radio?"

"Of course. You don't have to ask me stuff like that, blondie."

"'Kay." She changes the station with her toes. Flipping through One Republic and Rihanna and Florence and the Machine, finally settling on—

H-Holy crap…no, no, no. Of all the songs in the world, it has to be this. Knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. I can feel my lungs constricting, muscles tightening.

Chin atop her knees, her eyes are empty. "I love Black Light Burns. I remember…remember that Mother bought me one of their CDs once. She used to buy me CDs whenever I did a good job. It was nice, I guess. I mean, she was spending her own money." Pull a string off her shirt, watch it drift to the floor. "She made sacrifices for me. Sometimes."

I'm only half-listening. And I feel awful because of that, but the song is too loud. Lyrics infecting my bone marrow.

"We wake, wake on the inside. I must have a need to be terrorized."

Take a deep breath. Forget about the letter folded up in your pocket. But why did you even bring it? Why did you care? Rapunzel doesn't need to know. Just let her take you to the tattoo parlor and help you "find" Pitch. Rip it to pieces and throw it out the open window.

"This dark fever is unstoppable. This burning chill is unstoppable."

Tap your fingers on the console. Grip the stick shift because it's the next best thing. Forget the memories of this song. This stupid, stupid song that Pitch called your own. He turned it up while you were sitting in his car, passenger side. And his hands were down your pants, cutting through zippers and buckles. You writhed beneath him. Knees straddling your waist, head against the car door. It felt like your neck was about to break.

"This blackest wish has taken hold. I'm sorry it cannot be controlled."

Run your hands through your hair, breathing hard. Forget the song, forget the song. But you can't forget it, can you? That song haunts you in your sleep.

You is me. Me is Jack.

"Jack…Jack, the light's green." Rapunzel's voice sounds so far away. Thin fingers poke me in the stomach. Please don't, Punzie. I really don't want to puke all over my dashboard.

I just smile and nod. The gas pedal is hard to push. Feet heavier than ever, sweat beading on my forehead. My body is a mannequin. Driving with my stiff arms and stiff legs. Bars of orange slide across her face. Sitting next to me, eyes half-shut in the sunlight, she hums along to that song. I want to tell her to stop. Just stop, please stop.

Wait, she gets me. Yesterday happened. No matter how far away it feels. She told me to be shameless and then she…kissed me. Her world of color burst through Pitch's darkness. Grey hands turned vibrant and sunburnt. Black hair became gold in the sunshine. Only for a moment. He eclipsed her in a matter of seconds.

I glance over, feet getting heavier. "Uh…Rapunzel. Could you change the station?"

"You don't like this song." She says it like a fact.

"No, I like it. I mean, I liked it once. Now it just…" I don't know what I'm saying. "Forget it."

"It reminds you of Pitch." Another fact. Her big toe changes the station to some bubblegum pop song. "No need to explain. I get it. Songs do that to me, too. I've danced so many dances, heard so many songs. Certain ones make me remember." A shiver runs up her spine. Hands around her shins. She looks so small and cold.

I want to put a coat around her. Maybe even my arms.

"No," Pitch says in my brain. "You touch only me."

No, Pitch. I can touch whoever I want. My hands act of their own accord. The car coasts into a vacant parking lot. An abandoned gas station is covered in weeds.

Rapunzel leans up in her seat, twirling a strand of blonde. "You turned a little too early. Just make a U-turn, you can mak—"

Hands move again. I'll just let them do whatever they want. Take my jacket off, drape it across her body all bunched up like an embryo. They reach towards her, shaking.

"Can I hug you?"

It feels right to ask.

Big eyes blink. "What?"

"Can I hug you?" How small is my voice right now? Smaller than my hope, my courage. That's saying something.

Lips alternate between gasp and smile. "I, uh, no one's ever asked before. They just…touch me without asking."

Hollow laugh.

Awkward laugh.

Sparkling stare.

Anxious stare.

She looks at me and I am paralyzed.

I must have blinked, because now she is leaning across the stick shift. Settling into my arms. I can feel the smoothness of her cheek against mine. Arms through the sleeves of my jacket. Hands shaking on my back.

"Jack." She says it like a special thing. Not a name. Not an object that people toss into a corner. She says it again, "Jack." Again. "Jack." I want her to say it until I believe her, that I am more than a useless piece of trash.

So I tell her that she's more than trash. "Rapunzel." Again. "Rapunzel."

We reassure each other in the front seat of the car. In the middle of the parking lot next to the abandoned gas station. Saying the other's name over and over again. That's it. But a name means so much. A lot of people don't understand that.

Feel her smile against my neck. "Thanks."

I've forgotten what the normal response is. Hands hold her tight, eyes trying not to cry. Nothing to say. Just hug Rapunzel in the middle of the forest of weeds. Who needs this more? I don't know.

She doesn't know either.

Silence lasts as I drive out of the parking lot. Her fingers resting atop my hand, my hand atop the stick shift. Because it's the next best thing. I want to ask her to rip my hand away. Hold it tight and never let go. Save me from Pitch, Punzie. Your hands are so much softer.

"The grass is so much softer here." Rapunzel shuts the car door behind her, wriggling her toes in patches of weeds. This parking lot isn't in much better shape. Still, she loves it.

I squint in the evening light. Night's coming faster today. The tattoo parlor is crammed between a Hispanic supermarket and a uniform store for private school kids. Neon lights flicker on and off. It's a scene from some post-apocalyptic video game. Rapunzel standing on broken slabs of concrete. Stretching in the dying sunlight. All red, orange, and purple. Streaks painted angrily across the clouds. Like Hiccup was having a bad day or something. I love it when the sky looks like the world is about to end. And her arms are folded behind her head, eyes blinking. Eyes wide open. Fingers splayed out around a field of gold. Her sunburnt cheeks are redder than ever. Dark building before her, ratty old car beside her. No one around. Just a stray cat or two. The grass is sharp beneath her feet. The sky bleeding overhead. Give her a shotgun and it would all be perfect. She turns to me, smiling. Thumbs curled into her flannel sleeves.

"What is it?"

"N-Nothing." Look towards the shuttered windows. "Damnit. It says no shirt, no shoes, no service. You're barefoot, Punzie."

She bursts out laughing. "It's fine, silly willy. Trust me. Besides, when were you ever one to follow the rules?"

"Good point."

"Come on. I can't wait for you to meet Eugene."

"Eugene? Who's that, some twelve-year-old with buck teeth and a Star Trek obsession?"

She punches me in the arm. "Don't be mean. He's a tattoo artist. Besides, you like Star Trek. You have a big crush on Captain Kirk."

Feel my face redden. "Who told you that?"

"Well, uh, he did tell me a lot about you." Now her face is red. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

"Stop apologizing."

"Ok. Sor—nevermind, nevermind." Grasping the handle, she flings the door open, almost hitting me in the face. "My apologies."

Do I detect a tone of sarcasm?

Maybe, maybe not. All I know is the way she lets the door slam, grabbing it at the last second. All I know is the way the blinds shake, the way the greasy light comes flooding out. All I know is that I recognize Eugene's name. Isn't that the name of the janitor at the hospital?

I don't know.

All I know is that needles are gonna hurt. My tattoo is gonna look badass, and Rapunzel is gonna be there, holding my hand. Aligning her fingers with mine. And those fingers are so much softer than his, so much better. I just wish I could really believe that. The crumpled letter feels heavy in my pocket.

Heavier than ever.


	7. Treatment Stage 6: Offer Liquids

There is a girl sitting next to me. Hair flipped and messy. Looks like she just rolled out of bed. Fingers tapping her crossed arms. In the dark, in the half-lit lowlights of the parlor. Floor awash in white and yellow. She is quiet. She is stiff. I could be sitting beside a mannequin. Gradation of her skin reminding me of a prism. From sunburnt red on her knuckles to milky white on her neck. Veins visible and snaking. Maybe she's sick. Maybe she's tired. Black crescents suck her eyes into her skull. She is a collection of brittle bones. A sack of a body filled with dust. And her fingertips are frosted.

Someone grabs my hand.

"Don't be scared, Jack."

I'm not scared. I'm not.

Grips my hand tighter. "Tattoos don't really hurt, Jack. It's fine. Eugene is a great artist."

But I'm not scared. I swear I'm not.

There is a girl sitting next to me. Muscles flexed as the needle bears down. She's getting a string of words on her wrist. I can see the ink, black and curling. It says: let it go. What is she letting go? A memory, a relationship, herself? A time that she wants to rip apart with chipped nails. Scatter her freedom all around her. Frozen fractals on the ground. I want to ask her. But no, her secrets are her own. I would never show anyone my black box.

So I lean back and take a deep breath. There's a twisting in my ear. High-pitched drills buzzing against skin. Swallow. Breathe. Swallow. Breathe. These words are spoken in Pitch's voice. Back to my childhood bedroom. When we were young and uncaring. And so many other "un" words. God, Pitch is invading my life. Take another deep breath.

Rapunzel strokes my knuckles. Her eyes are blurry, her smile soft at the edges. "It's ok. You're gonna be ok. Don't be scared."

"I'm not—"

"You ready?" Eugene walks up to my chair, a smirk on his face. Funny, he wears gloves just like a surgeon. Quarter sleeves run up his arms. A golden castle, knights on horses, suns blazing in the background. Rapunzel tells me that he's always wanted a castle. He secretly wants to live in a fairytale. Today is full of secrets.

I nod. My smile is fake and shaking. I'm a drug addict experiencing withdrawals.

"Listen, man, it's not that bad." He sits on a stool, rolling across the tile. It's loud, grating. "Just relax. You're in good hands."

Those hands do look…good, I guess. Rugged and telling me that they've done hard work. They've held reigns and hammers, been red with rope burn. Wonder what they look like under those gloves, what they feel like. Sudden pressure makes my eyes widen. Gotta fix this, gotta fix this.

I run my hand through my hair. "Uh, Rapunzel, you should take that jacket off. It's kinda hot in here."

She shrugs. "I'm fine."

"No, really. Just take it off. You can put it in my lap." I tap my legs, trying so hard to hide my crotch. Because this is so embarrassing. Please, please, for the love of all that is holy, put it in my lap. Eugene the tattoo artist/janitor is turning me on for reasons unknown.

"But I'm not that hot, Jack. Thanks for thinking of me, though."

I stare her down, teeth gritted. "Blondie…"

Eugene bursts out laughing. He's readying his tools. "I called her blondie, too. Or I might call her goldie or Punzie or," he waggles his eyebrows, "sexy."

"You're an idiot." She hits him in the arm, giggling.

I try to laugh, too. Crossing and uncrossing my legs. This is ridiculous. I mean, seriously, how sad is this? Some sexually frustrated surgeon is sitting in a tattoo parlor, fantasizing about the well-built artist, the lithe ex-stripper that smiles like the sun, and the con that wants him so bad. It's been a little over a year since I last got laid. I know, pathetic. But it's true and it's killing me. Eugene and Rapunzel talk while I sweat it out. Fake smile stretched across my face.

Let's think about something else.

About the odd fact that Eugene goes by Flynn Rider. Rapunzel is the only one that calls him Eugene. And she won't say it in front of him. She's working so hard, trying not to slip up. In my mind, he's Eugene. But I won't say anything. Everyone has their reasons. Everyone should follow their arrow, wherever it points.

Let's talk about another strange thing.

About the odd fact that Eugene Fitzherbert (a.k.a Flynn Rider) is the janitor at the hospital I work at. I see him every so often. Rolling his bins and buckets across the tile. Stealing things like pens and pencils from the nurses. He tells me jokes in passing. He slips into the patients' rooms late at night. Talking to them. Just trying to make them smile. I've never gotten to know him. What is wrong with me? Rapunzel knows him because this tattoo parlor is a hub for women in her line of work. They are branded by their pimps. Like cattle. Like dogs. It makes me sick. Being a janitor doesn't pay much. Eugene needs extra cash. He's tattooed strippers and prostitutes. Inked them with street names, numbers, and even faces. Questioning it makes him sick. So he just does his job and slips his card into their hands. Always smiling and saying, "I've you ever need help, call this number". And then they'll slip away, eyes wide because their boss is everywhere.

Rapunzel has Pitch's calling card on her ass.

A stupid title, "Nightmare King".

I roll my eyes. He would call himself that. What an arrogant, pompous—

"Almost done, Jackie."

Did he really just call me Jackie? Blinking, I find myself back in the parlor. Imagination running away from me. Huh, I didn't even notice the needle. He must have started a while ago. It's buzzing and I feel numb. Moving along my shoulder, the words coming out nice and thick. I can feel it all. And yet, I can't. This is nice. Sharp as glass. Fuzzy as my memory. Rapunzel's hand squeezing mine.

Latex gloves stained with ink. Eugene's face sheened in sweat. He works and talks. Those lips pulling back to reveal white teeth. Hair falling back to reveal a five o'clock shadow. Think about those years back home. When Fall came fast and the sky turned to concrete. Scarf whipped around my nose. And people like Eugene walked all around me. Workers, businessman, cheeks hidden behind collars. Fall is rugged. Hands are rugged. He could be a carpenter. Toes curling into sawdust as he wipes his brow. Body beneath a tank top, all of those muscles turning like gears.

Ok, Jack, enough. Drape your arm across your lap, hide yourself. It's getting worse but you must have control. Because no one can relieve you. No one but him. Not this tattoo artist with his big hands and signature smolder. Not Rapunzel, never Rapunzel. Touching her in any way just seems wrong. Hugs are ok. Even a kiss. But anything else would ruin her. She's been touched enough.

And you are already tainted, Jack. You died a long time ago. When the demon stole your soul.

"Done!" Eugene rolls back on his stool, heels dragging. "Looks awesome, if I do say so myself. My cursive is still kickass. As if I had any doubt."

Feels like he's talking more to himself than to me. Whatever, I don't mind. Craning my neck, I glance at the writing. Skin red and raw, tattoo a vivid black that reminds me of Hiccup's favorite paint color, Night Fury. That's the color he used to paint his plane. That's the color he sees whenever he has nightmares of the crash. He has them more than he admits. Whenever I sleepover, which is a lot, I'll sit by their bedroom door and hear him whimper. Astrid's soft cooing, her hands running through his hair. Such a different side of her. And I'll sit there like a creep and listen. Hands folded across my knees, eyes empty. Then I'll wish that I had someone to stroke my hair and whisper nice things. Because when my nightmares come, I wake up alone.

"It looks amazing, Jack! You see it?" Rapunzel nudges my foot with hers. Her voice cutting through the clouds.

I nod. I try to remember to call him Flynn. "Yeah, it's…I don't even know what to say. You've rendered me speechless, Flynn."

He laughs and gives a dramatic shrug. "Well I do have that effect on people. With my charming personality and superhuman good looks."

"You're so modest, Eugene." The second she says it, her cheeks redden. She slaps both hands over her mouth. "Oops, I mean, Flynn."

"Seriously, blondie?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's hard, trying to remember two names."

Eugene sighs and takes his gloves off. Snap, snap. "It's not really that hard. I haven't slipped up in what? Five years?"

"Yeah, well good for you. You should just have one name like a normal person. I told you before, I like Eugene Fitzherbert much better than Flynn Rider."

His smile is wryer than bread. Horrible expression, I know, but it works. "You'd be the first, blondie. You'd be the first…"

I clear my throat, tapping my fingers awkwardly. "Uh, is Eugene Fitzherbert your double agent name or something? Maybe your secret identity or your drag queen name?"

He laughs. "You're funny, man, really. But no, it's not any of that."

"It's his real name, actually. Flynn Rider is just a name he likes to call himself. I think he got it from a book or—"

"Ok, he gets the point, blondie." Eugene tosses the gloves into the garbage can. Slap, slap. "It's a personal thing, you know? I would explain it, but I don't do backstory."

"No, I get it. Trust me, I get it." How I wish I could change my name. I'm kind of jealous. "We all have our pasts, our secrets."

"Exactly." I can tell he's nervous. The way he rubs his stubble and examines his tattoos. As if he's never seen them before. Oh look, a golden castle, a lantern dancing over the water. I would love to study them thoroughly. There's something about tattoos that catches my attention. Makes my mind reverse, go back into a child. I am in awe and fear.

He rakes his fingers over the flock of suns. "So how do you like it, Jack?"

"It's awesome. I really like it."

"Good, good." Clearing his throat, he puts his tools away. A little too slowly. "It's a nice quote by the way. Where's it from?"

"A book."

"Peter Pan."

Rapunzel and I say it at the same time. Mine being the latter. She stresses "book" and I stress nothing. Maybe she's trying to get Eugene to say which book Flynn came from. But Eugene isn't talking. Flynn opens his mouth instead.

"Nice. I've seen that movie, the cartoon one. And the one with Robin Williams."

"Hook." Rapunzel makes one with her index. Pretends to grab Eugene's sleeve. "That's more like a spin-off. Like a really cool Peter Pan fanfiction where you say 'what if?'"

"I guess."

Words fade into the background music. Some AC/DC song coming from the speakers. There isn't much to say. Eugene's eyes are fixed somewhere on the past. Rapunzel is twirling her hair. And I am running my fingers over the tattoo. Black and permanent. The words even more so:

To die would be an awfully big adventure.

Every letter scrawled across my bony shoulder.

I'm still touching it as we roll down the highway. Rapunzel insisted on driving. She said I looked spacey. The fact that she said that makes me angry. Of course I'm spacey. I've been spacey for the past six months. But I say nothing. She doesn't deserve my anger.

Rain drizzles on the windshield.

"Does it hurt?"

"Huh?"

"Your tattoo. You keep touching it." She looks sideways at me, hands gripping the steering wheel.

"No, it's fine." Drop my fingers just to make her stop talking about it. "But are you ok? Looks like you're holding on for dear life."

"I haven't driven in a while." Her laughter is all over the place. Really, really cute.

"That's ok. You haven't hit any stray dogs or small children, so I'd say you're doing all right."

"Stop it, you're making me nervous!" Another laugh that bounces off the dashboard.

I prop my feet up and ease the seat back. "Ok, I'll make you un-nervous."

"Not a word."

"Doesn't matter. Just listen. There's a little old man driving down the road and he gets a call from his wife. She says, 'Honey, I heard there was a car driving on the opposite side of the road. Be careful!' And he says, 'Just one car? There's hundreds!'"

It's quiet for a moment. Tete-A-Tete, Walk the Moon, plays on the radio.

Then Rapunzel starts cracking up. "Oh my God, that's hilarious."

"I know, right?"

We spend the rest of the car ride telling bad jokes. Seeing her smile makes things hurt less. Back at the tattoo parlor, things had been awkward. I paid for the tattoo and slipped Eugene an extra tip. He thanked me, shook my hand a little too tight. And I thought about his name and how dark his secret really is. I guess I'm not the only one with a black box under my bed. Rapunzel hugged him goodbye. Bouncing a little when she moved in, arms around his neck. There goes a flicker of…something. That special spark between two people. Two bodies. As they brush and create friction. They must have an interesting past. I tried not to feel jealous. She waited until we were outside to give my hand a squeeze. There in my palm, was Eugene's business card.

"Why so covert about it?"

"It makes the operation feel more real."

I raised my eyebrows. "Operation?"

"Yeah, Operation PB&J. 'Pitch Black and Jack'. Pitch's girls go to that tattoo parlor all the time. He sends them there to get branded. Maybe he'll come around sometime. I told you I'd help you find him." She opened the car door for me without a second thought. I didn't know what to say.

"Rapunzel, you don't have to do this. I can just, you know, forget about Pitch."

Could she hear the obvious lie?

"I promised I would help you. And when I promise something, I never break that promise."

"Ok…I get it. Thanks."

And I kept that card, kept it safe in my pocket. Blood flowing hot with guilt because this was futile. He was already waiting for me. This Friday at the theater, two tickets to Frozen in hand. She can't know. It would be an ultimate betrayal. Don't know why I think that, but I do. Her smile all tied up in bow, fingers drumming my arm. She is on edge yet she looks after me. Pitch beat her with a coat hanger yet she helps me look for him. Why doesn't that bother me more? It should. But sometimes, we overlook the obvious. The photographs and words from the mouths of witnesses. We stand in the courtroom and listen to the truth, but we turn it all off. Every syllable and sound that makes him less than what you see. He must stay whole. In your mind, you see the man, broken and put back together by your shaking hands. You worked so hard on him. You pieced him together, one by one. So maybe he's cruel. Maybe he stabbed you because you threatened to leave him. Maybe he cried on the bathroom floor because you were drowning in a pool of blood. Maybe he's bad. But who honestly gives a shit? Lawyers can scream and shout until the world ends. It won't make any difference. You just see him there, handcuffed and crying. Just like the bathroom floor. Just like you when you dream of him at night. When Rapunzel shows me the scars, I see them but I don't see them. Pitch has poisoned me. I know that. A therapist would diagnose me with a case of Stockholm Syndrome. Even though I'm not tied to a bedpost, I am caged. Maybe I like that.

And that's sick.

What if I phrase it a different way? Call him my sweetest downfall. Say I'm sorry and chalk it up to childhood ignorance. That makes it sound better. But I know the truth. Maybe I'll never get over it.

"Uh, hello? Jack? I said knock, knock."

Rapunzel is staring at me. We're at a red light. Water drips down the yellow and green.

"My bad." My smile feels so fake. Hope she doesn't notice. "Who's there?"

"Needle."

"Needle who?"

"Needle little money for the movies!"

My eyes go wide. She doesn't know right? I laugh. Geez, it sounds even faker than my smile. "Good one. I'm in tears, it's so funny."

"Jerk."

"You don't mean that." The light turns green. The car jerks forward.

"I know. Now no talking, I have to focus."

Focusing means muttering to herself while she drives, quietly cursing at the other cars. For an innocent-minded ex-stripper, she sure has a mouth on her. Not that she says anything bad above a whispering level. Astrid shrieks at the television when she's watching a cage fight. Hiccup sits on the couch and covers his ears. I miss those two. The sign up ahead says Burk Avenue. I know this road; their apartment building is at the end of it. Perhaps we could…

"Hey, Punzie, take a left."

"No, I'm pretty it's a right. I'm not that directionally challenged—"

"Just turn left. I want to go to Hiccup and Astrid's place." It comes out before I can stop it. This needy plea that makes me sound like a kindergartener crying for their mommy.

Rapunzel blinks. "They make you feel safe." She says it like a fact.

I nod. "I guess you could say it like that. I just don't want to be alone, honestly." Hollow laugh shakes my shoulders. "And if we head back to my apartment, you'll walk me up and give me a hug. Then you'll leave and I'll be alone. Again."

Why did I just say that?

"You're assuming I'd leave. That's not true." Eyebrows knitted together, teeth gnawing at her lip. "Jack, I wouldn't leave you. Not like this. I freaked you out with the whole Pitch thing, I can tell. And something about Eugene made you uncomfortable, at least I think so. You're drained; just take a look at your face in the rear-view. You need sunlight and fun, you need a friend. And I'll be that friend. I promise."

"Rapunzel." It's all I can say.

We're both breathing hard. Hands move of their own accord. Without realizing it, she has turned left. Straight down Burk Avenue.

A few more conversations come and go:

Miss Atomic Bomb plays on the radio. Rapunzel launches headfirst into the song. I follow and think that we're both imagining the music video. Jumping between live action and comic book style. We're speeding across the desert. Motorcycle leaning low in the sand. It spirals around our heads. Moon rises high in the distance as we lean back and laugh at the stars. Her fingers digging into my leather jacket. I'm trying so hard not to turn around and look at her. But she's so beautiful and her dancer's legs are stretched out and skimming the chrome. Blonde hair blown into the wind. My bangs caught up in the rush of adrenaline. We dream and remember the life in the city. Her sweetest downfall was a man in a suit and I was waiting in the wing. Now things are reversed.

Back in the car, I turn to her and say, "I love this song."

"Me, too. It pulls me forward and back. Into a past I never had and a future that will never be. Yet, I wish the song's world was real."

"Me, too."

She repeats it back, "Me, too."

And we keep going like this until the light turns red.

Another instance:

We're getting close to the apartment building. I can see the complex in the distance. Rising like that fat moon in my Killer's fantasy.

Car's in cruise control. Her toes tap the gas pedal. "So, I was just wondering, not trying to be nosey or anything, but I noticed that Eugene made you…uh, a little excited?"

All of my pride comes crashing down. What's left of it, anyway. "Holy shit, it was noticeable?"

She gasps and smirks simultaneously. The action rolling across her entire body. "So you were attracted to him! I knew it."

"No, I didn't—" Insert Hiccup eye roll here. There's no point in hiding this from her. "Fine, maybe I was slightly attracted just a smidge."

"Just a smidge, huh?" Toes tap faster. "Then you won't mind me talking about his outdoorsy good looks or the stubble along his chin or those hands, so big and rugged, bet they have a firm grip, too—"

"Damnit, you trying to embarrass me again?" Tucking my legs in, I hug my shins tight. Hide my face so now only my eyes and hair are visible. "You really do have a dark side, you know that? All that sunshininess is a farce. I'm onto you, blondie."

"Aw, you sweet baby." Voice all high-pitched, she hits me gently in the knee. "Seriously, you look pretty adorable right now. And I'm sorry, ok? I shouldn't tease you. Sorry."

Like usual, she's descending into that passive nature. Shoulders hunched as she looks out the windshield. No, I can't let her do this.

"It's fine. Really. I need to come to terms with the possibility that I'm bi."

She gives me an are-you-serious look.

"Fine. I need to come to terms with the fact that I'm bi. It's all good. Completely good." I sink into the seat, wishing I had my jacket back. "All good in the hood."

"Is that a common expression?"

Now I'm giving her an are-you-serious look. "Yeah, Rapunzel. It sure is. All the cool kids say it nowadays."

"Really? I didn't—wait a second…" She stamps her feet. "You're tricking me. Jackass."

I give her a Cheshire grin. "But you're so gullible, I couldn't resist."

We laugh some more. Her eye rolls moving in sync with mine. Admission feels good. Now we talk without barriers. Her past, my past. Everything dancing stark naked in the street. We can look our demons in the eye, because where else do you look? Learn their names, invite them over for a drink or two. I can't drown my demons, they know how to swim. So I hold their hands and Rapunzel holds mine. She keeps driving as the sun slips away.

One of my demons crawls up to me as the building looms closer. It grabs onto my pant leg, eyes like a puppy. Teeth like a monster. And the claws are scalpels in my knees. Reminds me of a time Pitch and I went at it in a car. His black car that moved in the night. Hidden by shadows.

I remember it, vivid in the back of my mind. No sex, just foreplay and plenty of screwing around. Never fooling around, because that entails some kind of compassion. My demon wraps their fingers around my eyes. It's there, a movie I never want to watch. But I look anyways:

Bones crack in the middle of the night. Parking lot dim with the flickering lights that go on and off. They shake over the black car. A moving picture show that clicks by, frame after frame. Inside, the Suburbs banging in our ears. Wave of yellow light, clear and alive. Wave of darkness. The eyes glow. Pitch hovering, knees spreading my legs like the wings of a butterfly. One that he rips apart. Scale by scale. Because they have scales, they really do. I learned that in biology class. When I was young. He rakes his nails down my chest. Tongue trail from navel to collarbone. My hands are tied up with a seatbelt. Wrists run red. With each beat drop, Pitch goes down, rubbing against me. Atoms jittery and aching. I see the tattoos, pulsing with lightning in the dark. I want to touch them, phantom fingers move up and out. Over curving lines that dip into the pelvis, the thighs. I gasp for breath, stomach tightening. Pitch grabs hold and I cry out.

"Here. I'll release you."

But he's only joking. Of course. He let's go. And the lights flicker, everything moving at half-speed. So slow, the way Pitch grinds against my chest, naked ass tight and cold. I'm the concrete, run over by everything and everyone. Pitch makes his way across me. Sitting in the middle of my abdomen, Pitch teases me. He rubs his palms over my pecs. Friction makes heat in the ice cold car. My breath catches in my lungs.

"R-Release me."

A smile that could split ice. "Are you sure?"

"Yes…"

"Hmm, I don't know. Do you really mean it?"

Violent nodding. "Yes, yes, yes!"

"Shhh." He bends over me, pressing forehead to forehead. I'm panting beneath him, whining behind clenched teeth. Cold sweat drips down my face. Pitch licks a few drops, running his tongue over the shuddering lower lip. "Salty. Yum."

"P-Pitch…you're being an asshole."

Another smile. It eats up the entire sky. "Are you in pain?"

Nod, nod, nod. The burning is only getting worse. My legs twist, toes curling into the leather seats. "Please, Pitch. I can't stand it." It kills me to say this. Words tumble out, pooling like blood at my fingertips.

Pitch grins that Cheshire grin. It eats his face whole. "Fine, fine. I'll save you. Ask me to save you."

"…"

"Ask me."

The pain is too much. I struggle to breathe. "Save me…please."

"Of course, my darling." He hoists my legs over his shoulders, feet dangling against his back. Gripping the ankles with both hands, he watches me shiver.

The chill rocks my whole body. Every muscles so tense, even the slightest movement making me moan. With each leg resting atop a thick shoulder, I feel myself opening up. Tendons and muscles in my thighs relax. Long fingers dig into my flesh. Higher and higher.

"Your skin's on fire."

"I-I just…I can't…stop messing with me. Help me, help me , help me!" Voice muffled, growing louder and louder. I struggle in my seatbelt handcuffs, thrusting forward. The pace is too quick, too needy. But I am desperately waiting. Fire razing my bones in the middle of the night. I hear my wrists cracking. And Arcade Fire is on infinite repeat. I glance up, eyes watering. "Pitch….Pitch!"

The fingers are so close. Buried in my upper thigh. Toes curl against the scarred back. Move up to the top of Pitch's head, gathering hair in their grasp.

"Oooh, so nimble. You're like a little monkey."

I grunt, still trying to break free. If only I could move an inch or two closer. These games are making my vision blurry. With each thrust, Pitch backs away, laughing. Fingers hovering over, almost touching. But almost counts for shit. I scream, writhing in the seat. Back arching and arms swinging. "P-P-Pitch! I need this!"

"I can tell. You're in absolute agony. I can only imagine the pain that exists right here." He places his hand just below my navel, inching slowly down. "So much want, need. So much…desperation."

I'm biting my tongue so hard it bleeds. Groaning through gritted teeth. I twist my arms back and forth. Begging Pitch to twist me like a loose screw. But the relief never comes. It's an infinite loop of waiting. Of "almost theres" and "oh so closes". The seatbelt is frayed. My muscles clench in my arms.

"You're so desperate, Jack."

Pulling at my bonds, shaking against the seat.

"And needy."

It's like I'm seizing. Body flails, shrieks rip through my throat.

"And pathetic."

Something just cracked. I scream. Something else cracks, too. I scream again.

Pitch's grin slips. "Oh shit…Jack. You didn't?"

"I did." And then I slide my hands out of the makeshift handcuff. Broken thumbs dangle, red and already beginning to swell.

Pitch blinks in the darkness. The tortuous façade breaking in half. The fun suddenly…gone. And horror is placed anew. Flickering in his golden eyes. I throw myself at him, grabbing his hands, forcing them down.

Pitch complies. For once.

My hand atop his, he moves to the same pulsating beat. There are a few seconds of numbness. Misunderstanding. Pitch is lost. He is usually the violent one, cutting slits across my back with a pocket knife. But tonight, I am the forceful one. Using Pitch's hand like a puppet. Biting at the grey neck with my broken thumbs hot and splintered. Lights flicker, on and off. Pitch falls in and out of shadow. And when he comes to, the grin is back. He yanks my hand away from his, sucking on the fingers with sudden fervor. He licks the broken thumb, listening for my whines.

"Does is hurt?"

"S-So much." It's an effort, dragging myself towards Pitch's ear. Lips rest on the lobe, my whole body threatening to collapse. "But it's worth it."

Pitch smiles and gives a forceful yank, making me moan. "You're a tough little bitch."

"I-I-I know."

And then all words descend into shrieks and groans. I'm gone, lost in the black tresses and swirling tattoos. Pitch pulls me closer, the space between us shrinking. Mere centimeters away, body to body. Hand pumping, eyes rolling. And the lights keep flickering. Arcade Fire is still on infinite repeat. Like Pitch's hand. Like my noises. Like this day, this night.

Everything on an infinite loop…

Some memory, huh? Long and winding through the labyrinth of a barely there mind. My mind. Little demon claws tickle my spine, disappearing into darkness. And I'm back, sitting beside Rapunzel and wishing I could banish all bad thoughts. She doesn't notice. I guess time passes faster in my head. She keeps driving as the sun slips away.

It's pitch black when we finally pull into the parking lot. No pun intended. Rapunzel locks the car and pockets the keys.

"I know it's your car, but let me keep the keys. Please? Just so you don't try to scurry off."

"Whatever, blondie."

She leads me by the hand. Tugging me up the stairs. We go two steps at a time. For a nanosecond she lingers at her door, but I nudge her away.

"No hiding."

Bare toes scratch her shin. I notice how cut up her legs are. Probably whipped by vines and the Crown of Thorns outside the building. She walks everywhere.

A nod that throws blonde in front of sunburnt cheeks. "Right. No hiding. Never again."

We knock on the door together. Mismatched and banging. I clear my throat and say in a high-pitched voice, "Housekeeping."

From behind the door, "Damnit, it's Jack."

"Sounds like a middle-aged Hispanic woman to me."

"No, Astrid, it's Jack. Thor help us all."

She snorts and stands up. I can hear her heavy feet hit the ground. "Did you just?"

"Yes I did. Now get the door."

Audible silence. I can just imagine her face. The way she stares, veins throbbing in her neck. She must look like a dragon right now. Seething in her horde.

Hiccup sighs. "I'll get it."

Open door, the freckles particularly bright tonight. "You need something?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Geez man, who pissed in your Cheerios?"

"Thanks for that wonderful mental image. And sorry, now isn't—oh, Rapunzel." Changing his expression midway is a special talent of his. One of bored repulsion to sweet kindness. "Hey, how's it going?"

"Oh, I'm fine, thanks—"

I throw my hands up. "Wait just a second, I get 'you need something?' And she gets an excited 'hey, how's it going?' The hell, man?" I know it's childish, but I can feel my face burning.

"Don't be immature." Half-open eyes tell me he's annoyed. "I see you all the time, almost too much, actually. And she's new around here, so…yeah. I don't have to justify myself to you."

I stare at him. Face even hotter.

"Are you pouting now, you big baby boo?"

"What did you just call me?"

He ignores my question. "Come on, Jack, don't be a baby. How about you try this?"

And then he wraps both arms around my neck and jumps onto me. Feet locking across my back. Like I'm carrying a giant baby in one of those stupid knapsacks. The ones that new parents wear, the fronts covered in spit-up and milk and staphylococcus. Very unnecessary.

Like this reverse piggyback ride.

Like Hiccup and his laughter.

Like Rapunzel and her rolling eyes and red cheeks.

Hic pulls me into the apartment. I'm tilting forward, Rapunzel's laughing. Change from carpet to tile. My feet slide all over.

"You're nuts! Let go or I'll knee you in the crotch!"

He gives me those puppy dog eyes. "Oh come on, you wouldn't hurt a one-legged—"

Hiccup must have washed the floor earlier. Smells like soap but doesn't really smell like soap. I trip, we fall. Flipping onto each other in the middle of the kitchen. Hear Astrid cracking up. The way she always does when someone hurts themselves. But in the nicest way, of course. Hiccup's bones pop. Ankle and shoulder and elbow. My bones pop in the middle of the night. When water drips from my faucet and scalpels spin on the countertop.

I'm sitting on top of him. Kneeling against his chest. Both of us panting as the room spins around and around.

"Put on a few pounds or something?" He moves beneath my knees. "You're crushing my raw vikingness."

"Raw vikingness my ass." I dig my knee in a little deeper. Just out of spite. "You're like a toothpick."

Eye-roll just out of spite. He makes it extra-long and circular. "If I'm a toothpick, you're a Q-tip."

"'Cause of all that premature white you got there, Jack."

"Thank you, Astrid." Say it through gritted teeth.

And the knee sinks further. Imagine white bone under a flap of skin. So much raw Hiccupness. Veins and arteries bunched like straws. Pink muscles filled with paint and blood. Those fingers next to mine are stiff. Inching towards carpal tunnel syndrome. Toes cold and rough. I can't feel them, but I know what they're like. He's draped his legs across me too many times to count.

This night is full of music. Back Seat by Atlas Genius is blasting in the background. Hiccup always turns up the volume with his toes.

Someone grabs my hair and lifts me up. "All right. Enough, you morons."

"You don't have to pull so hard, Astrid. I know you want me all to yourself, but relax. Hiccup needs sexy Jack time, too."

"Ha. Ha. Ha."

I like the way it sounds perforated. Like a typewriter.

Hiccup holds up his hand. "A little help, 'sexy Jack'."

"Of course, smokin' hot Hiccup."

Yank him to his feet. All of that raw vikingness moving in sync. Astrid pushes us both aside, rolling her eyes and cracking her knuckles.

"You two asshats are being awfully rude." She grabs Rapunzel's hands. "Come in. Ignore the Neanderthals."

So much laughing tonight. She sweeps her hair back. Green eyes blinking in the fluorescents. Funny, her freckles are bright, too. Now that I think about it, every detail is there. More vivid. More alive. I notice every one. As the night goes on. Astrid takes a P.F Chang's frozen meal from the freezer. Crystals fringing the door, her hands, and the bag. They sparkle. Lights are dustier. Watch the motes spiral down our throats. Silver pan on the stove, steam curling against the cabinets. One of the handles is chipped. People talk. Chicken sizzles beneath tin foil. And Astrid's hair is slick and falling in pieces. Looks very geometric tonight. Triangular braids. Rectangular bangs. Her open mind is oval. I listen to her talk. Listening to Rapunzel as she recounts our trip to the tattoo parlor. Moving her hands, trying to fight back a smile. Those hands are calloused and slightly stained. Paint can have that effect.

Hic and I are playing footsie under the bar. I'm still pissed about him grabbing my neck. He looks at my tattoo. Never presses a finger against it. That's what makes him so nice. He'll try to choke you and throw you to the floor. But he'll never touch a raw tattoo.

"That's pretty awesome. Not gonna lie." He pulls up his shirt. Bare skin slightly tanned. "See, I was thinking about getting a dragon right in the middle of my chest."

"Why don't you?"

"Astrid says it's corny and unsentimental."

Speak of the devil, she turns around. "Exactly. Tattoos are supposed to have meaning."

"Dragons do mean something to me!"

"What do they mean to you, huh?" She slams the spatula down on the countertop. "Do you have a dragon? Do you ride dragons? I'll answer that for you, no you don't."

"Way to crush my dreams."

"Come over here. I'll crush your face with my elbow."

It's a stare off. Glaring at each other until the other blinks. Astrid loses.

"Damnit!"

"And the best always comes out on top!" Hic's victory dance is hilarious to watch. "I won, I won!"

Astrid shakes her head, lifting the foil and sticking her fingers in. It's a slow thing. Licking her fingers one at a time. "You know, you're a good loser, but a terrible winner."

"Yeah, yeah." An eye-roll, a kick at my shins.

I whisper, "What the hell was that for?"

He waves me off. "Let's just go back to playing footsie."

So we do.

There's a reason this place makes me feel safe. When Astrid cooks, the steam rises high. Her horrid eggnog is always in the fridge. Sitting in a carton that we all try to avoid. The stove gets too hot. And the smoke chokes everybody out. We run out of the kitchen, coughing dramatically and throwing ourselves on the couch. Astrid's cursing at us and the stove and the orange chicken. There's some screaming, then Hiccup grabs the spatula and she grabs it back. Back and forth and back and forth till it goes flying into the sink. Skimming the counter, knocking a bottle of soy sauce onto the floor.

"Dumbass!"

"Captain Skinny Dick!"

"Oh so that's your best comeback?" Hiccup grabs the spatula, waving it like a weapon." You scullion!"

Astrid grabs the remote from Rapunzel, who was just about to turn on the TV. "You rampallian!"

"You fustilarian!"

Rapunzel is unfazed. Her smile is so real. "Aw, you guys just quoted Shakespeare's Henry IV."

"Yeah, we did." Hiccup looks a little proud of himself. He raises his hand.

Astrid takes the bait. "We're just like that."

They high-five in the space between the rooms. Kitchen to the right. Family room to the left.

I collapse into the spot next to Punzie. "Guess we don't have any soy sauce."

She shrugs. "Guess not."

So we have orange chicken and white rice, soy sauce-less. It's pretty good. Sitting on the couch with Styrofoam plates balancing on our knees. We watch Snowmageddon on Sy Fy. A ridiculous movie that's got Rapunzel in stitches. She falls over my lap. Hair tickling my toes. In a second I see her there. Moonlight shoots through the blinds. Touching her face in all sorts of ways.

Calming way: like we're sitting in a rowboat in the middle of a lake. Misty starlight in the water. Hundreds of dots remind me of a child's coloring book. Her eyes aglow. Those nights in the center of an ocean, a bed. Waves turning into sheets. And the potted plants outside your window. That whisper. That drop their leaves into the bucket full of rainwater. Because you live in the darkest city surrounded by the darkest things. Tap water black in the moonlight. Spring water like onyx. Your empty apartment filled with silence. A fish in a bowl of calm. And you are happy. Happy when I take you out and we say nothing. We are comfortable in silence.

Mysterious way: like we're walking through the forest. An art museum of black lines and white splotches. A melting moon rises high. Light shoots out of your fingers and your toes. Your face spotted. Half in shadow. Half in not. Our fingers are double jointed. They trip over each other as we run. Splayed in our back pockets. Brushing leaves and branches that scratch our legs. It's hard to see you. It's hard for you to see me. But we like the mystery.

Life way: like you're a flower. Plants take in their own light. It drips down your stem, so flexible and green. So beautiful.

Death way: like you're in a casket. You hold a bundle of flowers in your hands. Stiff with rigamortis. It's been a couple days since you've died. The church lights make you even more beautiful.

I see all of this in a second. Then she turns her head and the light is gone. Her smile lingers. We watch the stupid movie, Bastille's Icarus humming in the background. Astrid sits on Hiccup's lap. His fingers running through her hair. By the time the credits are rolling, everyone's asleep except me. Alone time. Great. That's all I need.

Go to sleep, Jack. Just for a minute or two. I fall into a haziness that eats everything whole. There is Rapunzel, shimmering in my mind. I see a scene like in a movie and suddenly I know secret things about her. A blonde child out in a rainstorm. She could crouch in the rain, hiding under the awning just outside the nail salon. Polish chipped, caught in between the folds of her teeth. She could crouch and read boy's love manga online. Her little secret that hides in her sweatshirt pocket.

How I know that, I'll never know. It must excite her. The way she mentioned Eugene and me.

Squinting in the halo of city light, she reads and waits for the rain to stop. Above, the sky is cut clear as a diamond. Clouds parting to reveal a swollen moon. And she feels it dripping. Heaviness pulls everything down. Gravity keeps her feet planted firmly on the ground. Like flowers and light posts that glow in the depths of night. When she is walking through the city, chewing on bay leaves for no other reason than pure love for the taste. Because she has nothing better to do at night.

I saw a bag of bay leaves in her apartment the first day we met. How odd, that I remember that now.

She will just walk along the slabs of chipped concrete. Picking the purple polish off her ring finger. The bag of bay leaves swings at her side. She doesn't know why she loves them so much. It's just the taste. Super mild, super fresh. Barely there, just like her. She is not mean, she is not nice. She is paint thrown on a canvas. Random lines that run together, cry together, laugh together. And then they go their separate ways. Every part of her goes its separate way. Feet take her downtown, to the Golden Dragon where she buys Mongolian beef every Wednesday. Not sure why I said that…all I know is I do that every Wednesday. Hands hold sticks and knock them against iron fences. Fingers trace stars in the bus windows.

She waits at the bus stop. The rain has let up. Seeking shelter under the awning is no longer necessary. Instead, she leans against the signpost and sighs. Night drags on and on. Glancing at her watch, it's five past eleven. The watch is thick and black. Heavy on her wrist.

The bus is taking way too long. The nail salon lies dark and silent behind her. Closed sign glows cherry red. Water drips down the awning, pooling on the sidewalk. She is tempted to jump in the puddles. Feel the warm wetness all over her shins. Hot liquid of the city that oozes between cracks. Dribbling like juice squeezed from an orange. Dribbling like drool squeezed from a mouth. Fingers digging into cheeks that are pink and white with so many prints. Dusted as if from a crime scene. She looks at her own fingerprints. They are not so special. They can't really be that unique. She feels her face redden. Thinking about drool makes her think about dogs, about condensation on windows, about those boys in her books. I think she's like that. She's innocent inside and scared of those things.

This dream is a walk down the alleys of Rapunzel's brain. All of it could be made up, who knows? But it feels real to me. And then it's over and I'm awake again.

Damnit all.

I blink in the darkness. Rapunzel's draped across me. A gorgeous towel that I'll never take off.

I still don't know why Hiccup was pissed when he first saw me.

It's late. I can see the alarm clock from where I'm sitting. Removing my blonde towel is easy. She's out like a light. I walk around the apartment, picking up random things. A moleskin notebook in the shelf. Bound up with string. Looks secret so I untie it and flip through the pages. Nothing but empty lines. Except for the last page. There's a sketch of Astrid holding Toothless. Quick and messy. Her eyes say murder. There's a roll of stickers on the counter. A bunch of stars that say "Good Job!" and "Excellent". I remember getting those in elementary school. Not that I ever deserved them. I peel one off and stick it on my shirt. Doesn't feel right. So I tear it off. Handful of change in the ash tray. Why they have an ash tray is beyond me. I guess Astrid likes to light up once in a harvest moon. And then there's a snail shell on the floor. Hiccup's shoes are close by. He must have dumped his shoes in the kitchen, the shell rolling out. I open one of the drawers and a few things catch my eye. A paintbrush stiff with rigamortis, a spool of ribbon, a spool of thread, a pocket knife, and a few batteries. That pretty much sums up this couple.

As does this piece of paper.

I find it under the pocket knife. Slightly torn as if someone was about to tear it. Then stopped short. Could be either of them. It's a letter:

"Dear Ms. Hofferson,

Congratulations! You have been accepted to British Columbia University. Due to your impressive transcript, you have been selected out of thousands of applicants to attend this…"

It keeps going. This rambling acceptance letter that makes my eyes go wide. Wow, good job, Astrid. You deserve one of those gold stars. You smart, sexy little spitfire. But why would you tear it up?

I look from the letter to the sleeping outlines on the couch. Astrid leaning against her boyfriend's temple. Hiccup holding his girlfriend's hand. And I think about Hic and his slew of good intentions. How he's always trying to take the initiative and do the right thing. I'd bet a million dollars that he applied for Astrid. Yeah, that's probably it. The moron.

I shake my head and put the letter back. Sometimes I forget that other people have problems, too. Stupid Jack.

We all have problems. Ninety-nine of them, and a bitch is definitely one. Because Pitch is a bitch and he's driving me crazy. I'm ready to bang my head into the fridge just thinking about him when I hear something.

Sounds like splitting wood. Creaking and breaking all over the apartment. It's the door. What the hell? My brain is lagging tonight. I connect the dots.

But it's too late.

I grab a knife off the counter and walk to the door. More splitting, more breaking. And then it stops.

Cock my head, the knife turning in my hand. "Uh, ok…" I press my eye against the peephole.

What a dumb idea.

Too simple. Too soon. Too late. My relief is gone as I breathe in, it's buried when I breathe out. Buried beneath layers of realization and curses that run all over my tongue.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Because there are shadows outside the door. Three of them. And they wanted me to lean against the door. I did exactly as planned. Dumb, stupid, foolish, worthy-of-death Jack. With your ignorance and lack of common sense. They're going to break down the door. Yes, yes, yes, yes they are.

One of them is backing up. Slowly.

Knew it.

No time to grab the phone. I just line the knife up, ready to plunge it deep into some asshole's stomach. And the door explodes within a nanosecond and I am flung back. That guy must be the size of bear, holy crap. I'm flattened beneath the frame. Splinters all around me. Like the bottom of a wood chipper. Footsteps heavy, so heavy. Atop me, beside me, within me. Burglars? Assassins? Murderers? Rapists? Mind working through a hundred scenarios. Each one worse than the former. And it comes to me that only a few seconds have passed. God, time moves faster in my head. All I know is that this is happening, really happening. We are really being robbed. As if my life couldn't get any worse.

But why do I only care about myself?

Why is it that in a moment of peril, I can only think of my own well-being?

What kind of a person am I?

Why am I this way?

And then I know as the boots come crashing down. Smell of blood and leather. Screams and shouts in my ears. I know what it is…now I know.

My light has gone out.

You know, the light of life? That glimmer inside you that lets others know you are not just some emotionless zombie.

People say that my light is gone.

I'm alive, but it's gone.

Apparently, that's what makes me such a good...

Nothing.

I'm good for nothing. And I only care about myself. Pitch should take me, drag me into the darkness with him. That's where I'm going now. Into darkness as the door presses down. Because I've been hell bound since I fell through the ice, since my sister died, since that little girl died on my operating table. So I go, straight to the hell of the unconscious.

Someone pulls me out. Half of me is thinking that it's Castiel and I really am Dean Winchester. But I know better. It's all fuzzy. A throbbing in my skull, my ribs stinging. Can't see anything but darkness.

Words in the distance. Intruders are talking. Listen to the metal on the floor. Probably a crowbar or a knife. Wait, Rapunzel! Hiccup and Astrid! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Even unconscious I can only think about myself. Listen, Jack. Shut up for a second and listen.

"Just go away." An audible swallow, a popping of bone. "There are other people in this building, they'll hear you, they'll call the police. You won't get away."

Good God, it's Rapunzel.

What is she doing?

"We're not going anywhere."

"Yes. You are."

The shadow laughs, so does the metal. I hear it all. "I have a knife. You're friends are out. I tell you what to do."

Laughing, she's laughing.

"Think that's funny?"

"Yeah, I do. Cause no one tells me what to do." She sounds so strong.

I turn my head, careful not to breathe. A small crack of light rushes in. The tile, the legs of a bar stool. And then I see them, diagonal in my vision. Hiccup is on the floor, awake but dazed. Eyes roll around his head. Astrid is in a headlock. I see a knife against her throat. Rapunzel stares at the intruders, never blinking. One of the shadows raises his knife. Blade touches stomach. Trailing up her jacket, the one I let her wear. It's sliced in half, along with the shirt. Not a flinch. Not a sound. She takes a deep breath.

He laughs in her ear. "Little bitch. I'd stop talking if I were you."

"Bitch?" She raises her eyebrows. "You're asking for it."

"You're the one asking for it, slut."

Knife tickles her chest, her collarbone. I'm seething under this door. But if I move, he might strike. Sink the knife into that beautiful skin…

His hand goes for her breast and she's screaming. A knee to the crotch. Shirt torn, pink bra exposed and moving against her skin. A shriek rips through her throat as she slaps his ears with her hands. Elbow in his neck, teeth closing around arm. It all happens so fast. I feel it all even though I'm motionless beneath the door. Muscles moving along her bones. Another imagined feeling. That familiar sensation that brings her back. Days running in the streets, looking over her shoulder as the sirens spun.

The intruder is down and out in half a second. Blood runs down his face. Eyes roll, his tongue lagging as he hits the tile. The other two lunge at her and I'm up, throwing the door off me. It's been ripped from its hinges. I'm screaming and waving my knife. Look for skin, slice it up. Every flash of flesh, I'm there. Eyes fringed with red. Astrid slips away. Bends down and head-butts her attacker in the jaw. Grabbing his arm, she twists him around, pulling the knife from his grasp. It's there, on his neck. The tables are turned.

"Got this one!"

"Good job, Astrid!" Without thinking, I stab the third guy in the arm. He screams and plows into me. I fall into Rapunzel. She pushes back and again, I go flying. We hit the counter and I have the high ground. Leaning over him, my knife skimming his throat. It all happens so fast. Working together. One machine without cogs or wheels. Just pure energy flowing through empty chambers. It's over in less than a minute. Nothing but heavy breaths and the sound of the A/C.

Rapunzel throws her arms up, panting and sweating in her ripped up jacket. "Who's the bitch now, huh? You're lucky I don't have my frying pan!"

Stand for a few moments, clutching her sides as the shock passes. What just happened? Damn, that was a nice jacket. Hoodies are my favorite. Oh well. Now her stomach is visible and sheened in sweat. She motions for me to stand aside.

"Just…just hold the knife there, Jack." She looks up at Astrid. "Knock him out, call the police."

"Right." The knife is turned around. "Hope you get brain damage, jackass." And then she whips him across the head. Letting him fall to the floor. His head cracks.

Rapunzel climbs up on the counter and straddles the guy with her knees. I keep the knife steady.

"Yeah, Jack…yeah, that's good." Both hands grab the intruder's collar. "Now listen to me. Listen really well. First of all, you're stupid. Who burglarizes an apartment without a gun?"

His eyes are empty. "Wasn't…a…burglary."

"Then what was it? Huh?"

"A message. From him."

Is she growling? Yep, she's growling. Teeth are bared. Tooth would be proud of those teeth. "Who? I need specifics, none of this ambiguous crap."

Swallow, breathe, swallow again. He's fading out. "He…saw you at the tattoo parlor. Sent us after you, told us to follow your car. He doesn't like you messing with the white-haired kid."

I almost drop the knife. "Wait, me?"

He nods. "Yeah...says your special to him and this…this blonde bitch needs to leave you alone."

Rapunzel shrieks and slaps him across the face. "Stop calling me that! Do it again and I'll break your nose!"

"Doesn't matter. The King will kill me anyways."

I repeat it just like Rapunzel always does. "The King…"

She rolls her eyes. "The Nightmare King. I know what he calls himself."

"Pitch."

"Yeah, Jack. It's him. He really wants you for himself, doesn't he?" She looks down at the intruder. "Thanks for the info." After knocking him out with some knuckles to the eyes, she slides off the counter. "I didn't think going to the parlor would cause this. How did he see us? Where was he?"

"I don't know." I keep shaking my head. This is just too unreal.

Astrid comes up behind me, breathing hard. "Ok, I called the cops. They should be here soon if they get off their asses."

"Good, good."

There's a lot of repeats tonight. And details, so many details. Red blood dripping down the walls. Smooth and silent. Drops in the porcelain sink. It still smells like soap. But doesn't really smell like soap. Everything seems so white. Extra surgical. Astrid's braid is undone. Hiccup's knees shake as he stands. Bleeding from his head, a gash across his temple. The same place Astrid was leaning against hours ago. I see the drawer half-open and the letter peeking out. Rapunzel's cheeks aflame, her knuckles bruised. Dozens of shades of black and blue.

This is my fault.

When the sirens blare, it is still my fault. The cops arrive, along with an ambulance. We're given blankets for shock. Astrid thinks they're stupid. And everything is still my fault. They treat Hiccup on the spot. Pulling us all out of the apartment, making us gather in the parking lot. Nosey neighbors come out, too. I sit on the floor of the ambulance, doors open wide. Someone's bandaging my arms because apparently I was stabbed. Huh, who knew? Rapunzel's hands are all wrapped up. Astrid's, too. Along with gauze on her cheek and neck. Hiccup has it the worse. The paramedics want to take him to the hospital but he tells them no.

Hear him shouting over the sirens and words. "I'm a nurse, ok? Listen, I'm a nurse. Here…here's my ID. Please, don't take me. I know how to treat head wounds, my friend Merida DunBroch is a nurse, too. I'll call her over. Seriously, I don't want—"

One of the paramedics passes me. I recognize her from the hospital. What's that nickname everyone calls her? "Ruffnut! Hey!"

She whirls around. A woman that looks just as scary as Astrid. Braided hair, a hard glint in her eye. "Who? Oh, Overland it's you! I tell people not to call me that!" Adjusting her radio, she walks over. "Oh my God, I had no idea you were here, too. This is some sick shit here. What happened?"

"Too long a story to tell." I jump off the ambulance, pushing the medic away. "Just listen, don't let your buddies take Hic. Go over there, help him out. He doesn't want to go to the hospital."

"Uh, you want me to get fired?"

"No, don't be an idiot. He just doesn't want to go, seriously. He'll be fine, trust him."

Her permanently burned cheeks are even redder. "I…fine. Whatever. But you owe me one, Overland."

"Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah." She walks away, shoulders hunched. I realize how much I love that rasp in her voice.

Thanks to Ruffnut, no one goes to the hospital. Hiccup doesn't have a concussion. Both pupils are aligned. We're just a bundle of bandages and shock blankets. Hic makes a reference to Sherlock Holmes and we're all laughing. They're hollow laughs. But still, better than nothing. Try not to think about the yellow tape wound around the busted door. The black words, CAUTION, and the dried blood. This night…is it even real?

I don't know anymore.

All I know is this: I look at my friends. One of them blonde with bits and pieces in her eyes. Sweat swathed across her body like paint. She's covered in bruises. Slumped against an ambulance door, her eyes are faraway. Bandages all white and fastened. I watch her chew her lip. One of them has a head wound where his girlfriend once lay. The same skin that felt kisses felt blood and metal. He stares at the stars. Arms crossed, the fingers dig into his skin. Who's he angry at? Himself, the intruders? Me? The muttering starts and he grabs Astrid's hand. She is my other friend. Braids untied and blowing in the wind. Looks like she just got back from a fight. Love translates into fire. I can see it in the whites of her eyes. They all lean back and look. At something, at nothing at all. I look at all of them. And inside, I'm dying. Because my friends…they're hurt. I feel like Marius in Les Miserables and it's killing me.

Damn Pitch. Damn him and his minions. But damn me most of all. Because even after all this, I will go to him. I know I will.

And that's an incurable thing.

Rapunzel is on my right. She suddenly takes my hand. "Everything's gonna be ok."

Hiccup grabs my other one. "She's right."

Astrid's voice is clear. "Yeah…"

All I can do is nod.

It's still such an incurable thing.

A/N: Ok, guys, not trying to sound needy or anything, but I would really love to hear from you guys. More feedback would be great and give me motivation, so please, if you can, review!

Thanks :)


	8. Treatment Stage 7: If Needed, Call 911

He spins the microphone three times. "We're soooarrrin'!"

She does the same. "We're flyyyinn'!"

"There's not a star in heaven that we can't reach!"

"If we're tryin'…"

All together now, "Yeah we're breakin' free…"

Yeah, we're singing High school Musical songs. Pathetic in the eyes of the few. Or was that the many? But then again, does it really matter? I decide it does not. It's Thursday. Movie night, Except We Ditched Movies For Karaoke Night, We Survived a Burglary night, whatever you want to call it. Because Hiccup and Astrid still think it was a burglary. Thank God. When Astrid went to call the police, she missed pieces of information. The guy beneath Rapunzel's blade. He spoke too softly. Astrid only hears loud things. And Rapunzel hasn't said a word about it. Almost like it never happened. She shrugs and says, "Yeah, that was some burglary. People are crazy."

I want to thank her for that. But whenever I open my mouth, ready to say it, she gives me this look. Just drop it. Ok, Rapunzel. Ok.

A few days have passed since the incident, I think. Still not the end of the week. Time is hard to keep track of. No one seems traumatized. If they are, they're hiding it well. Like me. Trauma is building in my lungs. Has been ever since I saw that knife slice her shirt open. I dreamed about her last night. Standing alone in the middle of the kitchen. Torn flaps of my jacket fluttering against her skin. I feel her pain through the jacket. Through the single possession that we share. I told her to keep it.

A few nights ago, standing in the middle of the parking lot. Not the kitchen. She stared at me, unblinking, unspeaking. Pieces of blonde were laced across her face. Stars blinked angrily above.

"Jack…I'm so sorry about your jacket. It's ruined. Because of me." She kept gasping, like only a few words were allowed out at a time.

"The hell? No, please, no." I ran my hands down my face. "Don't apologize. This isn't your fault. You're seriously sorry about this?"

"Yes…"

"Don't be!" Without thinking, I grabbed both her shoulders. But she didn't flinch. "Rapunzel, you have nothing to be sorry about! You were amazing, ok? Frickin' amazing. You saved our lives in there. I was trapped beneath a door. Pathetic. But you, you were so strong." Not thinking makes me do crazy things. I pulled her in and hugged her till our bones popped. "You have no reason to feel guilty. This is my fault. You're everything I'm not."

And then she pulled back and her eyes were marbles. Green and glossy. Bandages on her cheeks looked brighter than ever. Mine were dull and bloody.

"Jack."

All she could say. Everything was growing. I could feel the heat in my cheeks and the cold in the air. Stars turning and burning. One second, they were pinholes. Another second, they were intergalactic tears that hurt my eyes. Even the white lines on the blacktop seemed to grow. In width and length and every other possible dimension. Until she and I were insects and the world was so much larger. You'd think "insects" would be an insult. But it's not. Feeling small is my favorite feeling. Be able to see the universe for what it really is. Makes my problems more manageable.

Forehead to forehead, we stared at each other. Without saying anything, she shoved a headphone into my ear. Her iPod balanced between index and thumb.

I heard the lyrics:

"the skyline looks brighter tonight  
lets go smash out every light  
your left foot in front of right  
and we yell  
ahh like a good old fashion nightmare"

You didn't even have to ask. I took your hand and we walked out of that parking lot. The ambulances were gone, the police cars, too. Nosey neighbors stuffed back into their rooms. Hic and Astrid drove off to Merida's place.

She stuck her head out the driver's side. Braid slapping her face. "You sure you don't wanna ride?"

"It's fine. I have my car here."

Hiccup rolled his eyes. "We know, but are you two ok? I mean, we did just witness a violent crime. Someone could have died. Won't you feel safer with your friends?"

The way he said that split my spine in two. His eyebrows knitted in that way that reminded me of a worried dog.

Rapunzel smiled for the both of us. Thin fingers gripped the half-open window. "You're sweet, both of you. But we'll be all right. Trust me. I'll make sure he's not alone."

It's funny how the truth comes out. Hic and Astrid weren't really concerned for Punzie's safety. It was my safety. I'm the little kid everyone frets about.

He sighed. "Fine, just be careful. Both of you."

They drove away, eyes on us. Waves felt fake. Our smiles inanimate. And then she turned to me and said nothing. That's when the world grew ten times its size. Hand in hand, we walked up and down the block. Into darkness the size of a killer whale. Not like that makes any sense. But everything just looked oceanic. Lights were flickering jellyfish. Gravel on my soles was sand in my toes. She smelled of sunshine and seashells. Our bandages were strips of seaweed stuck to our cheeks. I like the ways she walks. With her hands interlaced behind her back. Fingers bounce against the bottom of her spine. Trailing behind her, I could see the jacket rising. Just high enough to glimpse dimples in her back. She wore it how it was. Rips and all. Even though her pink bra was exposed.

The shrug moved through her entire body. A very real wave. "Who cares? It shouldn't surprise people that I wear a bra."

I expected her to use the blackness of night as a justification. Guess I was wrong. She gave zero shits. Kept walking and walking and walking. Past closed-up shops and sparkling clubs. A random condominium with concrete roofs. There were a few lights on. Massive rectangle windows. Small portholes. Light pooled on the ground. She jumped from puddle to puddle.

Pointing into the dark, "Look. A baseball bat."

Sure enough, there was a baseball bat leaning against the wall. She picked it up and balanced it atop her shoulders. Strung from blade to blade. Her bones even more jutting than usual.

"So Punzie, you're a thief now?"

"No, no." Laughing, she shook her head. "I didn't steal this, I commandeered it."

I laughed back. "Ok, Jack Sparrow."

"Captain Jack Sparrow." The way she raised her eyebrows made me smile.

"Whatever. But seriously, you just picked up the bat and walked away with it. It could belong to a kid or something."

Another laugh. And then she stood like a…like a woman. I don't know how else to explain it. She didn't stand like a model, nothing fake about her. It was just a pose that screamed confidence and power. Long legs extended and locked in place. Crook of her elbows resting on the wood. "Like you're such a model citizen, Jack."

"Point taken."

She nudged me and smiled. The baseball bat glowed beneath the street lights. "Now, there's an old junkyard near here. I used to go there some nights, take my anger out on the cars." Whoosh, the bat went back and forth in the air. "You should vent, too."

What the hell, why not? So I nodded and we ran to the junkyard. Rapunzel in front, hair slapping her back. We were out all night. I broke the windows of a Volvo. She stood atop a Volkswagen and smashed the roof in. Under a field of stars. Under a hard black sky that made me feel so small. We lay on the crushed roof and watched the moon set. Her warm fingers wrapped around my cold hand. Such a gorgeous person. Every inch of her body molded against the metal. It hugged her shoulders and her thighs. I watched her stomach rise as she breathed in and out. In and out.

The night moved on.

Like I hope to someday.

And now we come to tonight. To the present. To the right now. Work has been average and boring. I've performed surgeries and "saved" another life. They don't feel like victories anymore. So let's just think about this moment.

We are all gathered at Merida and Tooth's place. A rather large apartment with bean bag chairs and La-Z-Boys and plenty of scattered goods. Books, magazines, softballs and baseballs and basketballs. Merida loves sports. She stuffs all of her gear into one corner. Tooth is more organized. You can identify her side of the bed and her side of the sink. All of the utensils are shining in the drawer. Perfect. One of the walls is covered in a mural. A bird stretches its wings from floor to ceiling. The feathers are rainbow-colored and they look so real. I can't stop staring. One of them sits just above Astrid's head. Another floats down towards Merida.

Aster screams into his microphone. Tooth does the same. Shaking their asses in our general direction. What a bunch of dorks. That blue-haired jerk is now a permanent member of our little group. Even though I can count the number of days I've known him on two hands tops. This whole week has gone by so, so slowly. If I think about it too much, it doesn't even make sense. There should be a limit to how many things can happen in a week. Similar to the post limit on tumblr. Meeting Rapunzel, falling off a balcony, rediscovering Pitch. These things should be spaced out. Not crammed into a few measly days. But this is life. Sometimes it stretches on and on without end. Dozens of days filled with nothing. Nothing at all. Kind of like balloons. And we sit and fill them up with burned-out canisters, staring at the wall in front of us. A blank wall that doesn't even have a damn clock. I blew up my days and let them settle in a corner. Watching them bob in the air. Because balloons never want to fall. They drift down, like they're trying to fight it. You can't fight gravity, though. That's stupid. So why fight it at all? I sunk with them. Then I fell. Kind of like a balloon. She grabbed me and popped all those unending days. Helium rush, my eyes going wide. Then everything happened at once. If boredom builds up for too long, it will create absurdity. This week is absurd. I'm absurd, so is she, and he, and him, and they, and them. We all are.

There are balloons on the floor now. How ironic. Merida dug them out of a drawer. They say, "Happy Sweet 16!" on them.

"For my birthday, can you believe it?" She laughs and shakes her head. "My mum bought these, but we never used them."

Me and Hic speak at the same time.

"Why didn't you?"

"And you still have them after all these years?"

The first one is me.

Shrug. "I don't know…I wanted to keep 'em. They're a reminder of what things could have been, the fate I could have had. And to answer your question, Jack, that was the year I came out."

And just like that, happiness evaporates. Her smile quivering, she's suddenly a hundred years older and I want to cry. For her, for me. I sink back into my chair. Hiccup's eyebrows are in permanent shock. I doubt he even notices how high they are right now. Vanishing into his bangs. That makes me want to laugh, but Merida makes me want to cry?

And so, like a hormonal teenager, I turn back to the show.

Balloons of all different colors float across the floor. Merida pops five and never flinches at the sound.

"Shit, looks like we've got ourselves a fire breathing dragon over here." Astrid flings herself over Merida's armchair. Upside down, a bottle of jager in her hand. Even semi-drunk, she is nimble. Never spilling a single drop. She ruffles Merida's hair. "You're pumping those things way too full of air. Seriously, you're like a dragon trying to blow up a balloon."

"You've already used that simile, Astrid. Twice."

Their eye roll is simultaneous. "Ok, Hic, how's this simile? You look like the Incredible Hulk's wife."

He jumps when another balloon pops. "That doesn't even make sense. Your mouth is writing cheques your body can't cash."

"Oh, so now we're quoting Virginia Woolf?" She's thinking, running fingertip over bottom lip. A tipsy Astrid is a deliberate Astrid. Slow and pondering. Even that fingertip has a mind of its own. A purpose. The lips are wet and stained from eating the watermelon in the fridge. "Ok, uh, you have the charisma of a magnum of chloroform. Woolf strikes again!"

"Fine! You wanna go? Let's go!" Hiccup's on his feet now, popping another balloon beneath his shoes. How cute, he still flinches. "Your…your jacket would look better on a potato! Jonathan Swift!"

"You could donate your face to science fiction! Oscar Wilde!"

Both of them gripping something, either a broken balloon or a bottle of jager, the insult battle has begun.

Forcing a smile, I lean back. Without thinking. I'm just so tired. The "burglary" resulted in some bruised ribs and shallow cuts. Nothing too bad. But still, my body feels broken. Sort of. Kind of like a balloon. When you poke the tiniest hole in one and listen to the air hissing out. No one is ever quiet enough to hear. No one but her.

I blink. She's there, hovering over me with a smile on her face. The freckles dancing on her cheeks. Soft cheeks, soft lips, soft hair brushing my—

Oh wait...shit, I'm somehow in her lap. How did I end up here? Is she ok, am I scaring her, being too pushy?

Rapunzel shakes her head. Bits of gold frame her face. "Hi, Jack."

My smile is natural. "Uh, hey. I didn't know you were sitting here. I was just gonna lay on the couch, it was completely unintentional."

"It was?"

"Yes…no?" My cheeks are burning. "What do you want me to say?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. The truth. That's really all I've ever wanted from people."

The truth. The quality or state of being true, according to Google. Factual, real. But all these words are just words. Philosophically, truth is something to be debated. Not that I care what old scholars with long beards do in their spare time. I can understand them, though. I get older every year. I question what that word means. Because I don't even know what to consider truth. Those feelings in my gut can't be trusted. Half of me says "stay here, be satisfied with your life and fall in love with this gorgeous girl". Half of me says "go, free yourself and fall in love with your past". Darkness can be gorgeous too. This thought stays in my center. A bridge between the two. There is darkness in both of them. Rapunzel and Pitch. One has more than the other. One likes its company. And yet, I see light in both. One has more than the other. One likes its company.

But this isn't about choices. Playing games is for middle schoolers. I'm not pressed against the chain-link fence, cornered by two lovers and forced to decide. Two people.

Darkness: tall, dark, and understanding. He knows what I've been through. We've stayed up all night. All day. And we've been close, closer than I like to admit. If you forget the past, you're doomed to repeat it.

Light: warm, alive, and flowing. She pulls me along with a smile on her face. We met last week, but we get each other. One kiss, one touch. That's it. Sunbeams are warmer than moonbeams. The future is bright. Why dwell on the past?

I'm trapped. They are not waiting. The only pathetic one is me. So what is the truth?

"Jack?"

"Huh?" Blink again, she's still there.

"You're spacing out, but that's ok. And you don't have to answer my question. Just answer this, do you, uh, like this? Your head in my lap, does it feel nice?"

Wow, her innocence is astounding. Sometimes it's there, right at the surface. Other times, it's buried beneath a wry smile. Right now it is peeking out from behind her eyes.

I shrug. "You're too nice. You care about how I feel, what about how you feel?"

We are in a sound proof bubble. Aster's singing drowned in silence. Exploding balloons and shouted insults. Quiet. Like the night in the parking lot when the world grew ten times. Her eyes are bigger than before. Blonde strands tickle my cheeks. Lean closer and closer. Grow darker and darker. Curtains of hair cover every inch. Until I am surrounded.

Her voice comes from a void. From darkness. "This is why I like you so much, Jack. You ask me questions no one's ever bothered to ask me before."

Noses touch. We smile at the same time. And for a second, I only care about her.

Hiccup pops our bubble.

"Hey, lovebirds."

Rapunzel sits up, gasping. "L-Lovebirds? No…we were just talking."

Astrid groans and throws a pillow at Hic. "Don't be a jackass. You're embarrassing her."

He groans back. "I was joking, kidding, jesting, any other word that means to talk humorously or flippantly."

Merida is laughing. "Enough with your fancy words, we know you're smart."

"He likes the attention." I waggle my eyebrows at him. "Come on, Hic, you know you like it."

"Oh yeah, I love it." That eyeroll couldn't be more obvious. "Now get up, it's our turn to sing."

We're stuck with "Bet On It" from High school Musical 2. Merida's apartment becomes a golf course. Sloping couches and piles of sand. From our shoes. We tracked in dirt from the outside. Merida doesn't mind. She'd rather be outside anyways. Tooth squealed when she saw the mess. Hopping up and down, her face red.

"I'll have to scrub the floor with a toothbrush when you leave. You guys are so messy!"

Merida pecked her on the cheek. Cuteness overload. At least, that's what I used to think when I saw them kiss. Now I feel sad. Eyes, like marbles. Hands, like lilies. Wilting and invisible to everyone. I see her and she is a child keeping secrets from her parents. Will she ever tell Merida? Maybe when those rainbow bangs start falling out. Maybe then, maybe never.

It's none of my business.

So I stick this stupid smile on my face.

Feels real enough now. Hiccup does Zac Efron spins. We grab each other by the waist and dance. I let go. Mentally. Not physically. And the night becomes a movie. Clicking by, one frame at a time.

0.00 seconds: Rapunzel stretched out on the couch. Actually taking up space. She's smiling at the ceiling and running her toes over the armrest. No one dares to touch her. There is a living sculpture breathing in the dark. Her hair moves whenever a person talks, walks, breathes. Every movement a ripple in the pond. The surface cradles her. She listens. Observes. The way Hiccup's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. Or the way Astrid walks heavy and warm across the carpet. That bottle of jager is almost gone. Rapunzel keeps smiling. For a second I wonder, am I just another pebble in her pond?

10.00 seconds: Astrid collapsing into her boyfriend's lap. She is intoxicated. She is intoxicating. Warmth dripping off like honey. So cuddle worthy. Hiccup hugs her from behind. His chin rests atop her shoulder. White fabric that smells of sunset. The shirt is Merida's. A long-sleeved crop top that makes her abdomen impossibly long. Astrid's been borrowing clothes for the past few days. She looks great in those camo pants. In anything. I can appreciate her for what she is. Beautiful.

20.00 seconds: Aster in the kitchen. He's making eggs for everyone. Steam gets caught in the nooks and crannies. Tooth is in there, too, watching the master at work. The angular tattoos and rainbow bangs remind me of space. We could all be in a ship right now. Sailing over stars and into the darkness. Yes, the darkness. With Hiccup as our pilot. He leads us where no one has gone before. Aster works on the engines. Sweat rolls down his temple, skin beat red beneath the lights. Tooth the medic takes care of us. But she has a secret—she is one of the strongest aboard. Merida's the first mate. She refuses to wear her hair in the regulated fashion. No buns or ponytails for her. Shouts come from the brig. Astrid's in charge of weapon management. The scars on her back are mistaken for tattoos. They're so extensive. Rapunzel is our captain. When I first met her, I would have imagined her a private, maybe a corporal at best. But she is hidden behind brick walls and mean mothers and pimps and pictures of skinny white boys she's supposed to find. Inside, she is invincible. I salute her and go back to my station. I'm a member of the crew, just another member. No special title. And I don't mind that. Our ship will go on and on forever.

30.00: Merida sitting on the countertop. In that I-don't-give-two-shits way. Nothing but wild hair and scratching nails. She's thinking. Those balloons set her off. I can tell.

The camera stops. I offer her my hand and we're dancing.

Hiccup's irritated. "You stole my dance partner, you soulless ginger."

"Ginger?" She kisses my forehead and cracks her knuckles. An interesting combination. "Hang on, Jack, I've gotta take care of this lavvy-heid."

Being chased by a pissed off Scot is hell. I would know. One time, when she was wearing one of her kilts, I asked if she had anything under it. Then I proceeded to try and slap her ass. Didn't go over so well. My coworkers asked me if I'd been attacked by a cat.

Hiccup is the bunny. Merida is the fox. Run, run as fast as you can, little bunny. The song ends.

"Hey Punzie, it's your turn."

"What?" Toes rub the armrest harder. "I'm not that good of a singer."

"Don't give me that. Remember that time in your apartment? We danced and sang like idiots."

That smirk makes me melt. There's her secret self. Strong beneath paper thin skin. "You got me."

Footsteps are barely audible. She could be a ghost. Funny, I once thought she was. I pass the microphone to her.

Screen blacks out, then comes back. Bright. "I guess we have 'Gotta Go My Own Way'."

"What's that?"

"Well, it's a song from High school Musical 2." I laugh and tap the top of the karaoke machine. "You have seen those movies, right?"

Rapunzel nudges me with her elbow. "Of course I have. I haven't been living under a rock, silly. I just forget the songs. This is the Gabriella one?"

"Yeah." Music is starting. "Kind of a downer, to be honest."

"We'll just have to make it happy, then."

Bouncing on her heels, she begins. Quiet voice like her footsteps. Unnoticeable. Every syllable is a siren in my head. Again, the world expands. We are the center, the universe exploding out. Sounds so selfish. But I swear I'm not conceited. There's nothing wrong with thinking you're special. For a second, a minute, a year. Time can leap forward without you knowing. If you don't think you're special, no one else will. You'll grow old and die before realizing that hey, you're the only you. Irreplaceable. The corniness of all this is suffocating. Thoughts still come. You're special, you're special.

He used to say that to me all the time. I would say it back. Because neither of us felt special. We were unnoticeable together. But then again, he also called me worthless, too. Always back to him, isn't it?

Even this song leads me to him.

"Another color turns to grey  
and it's just too hard to watch it all  
slowly fade away."

Rapunzel sings it with light in her eyes. I see only gold.

No one is watching us. They are cooking eggs and cuddling on the couch. She shakes her shoulders at me. Toes turning beneath her body. Spinning, extending each leg as high as it can go. Flowers grow and wilt. Grow and wilt again. The cycles she creates are forever. Smiles to frowns. Ups to downs. Innocence to strength. She can be made so many different ways. Scrambled and dancing all over a newspapered apartment. Fried and sweating under a hot day. Over-easy and melting in her sadness. Hardboiled and ready to fight. Or something else altogether. Something you can hammer a nail into. It will never break.

I hope this will rub off on me. Someday I'll be able to jump between selves. Not today. Not tonight as my mind drifts towards him.

She bumps into me. Laugh like sunlight.

"I've got to move on and be who I am  
I just don't belong here, I hope you understand  
We might find a place in this world someday  
But at least for now, I gotta go my way."

She isn't listening to the words. Damnit, these songs weren't supposed to be sad. They feel applicable when Aster calls us all to dinner. They run for the kitchen. I stay behind. Every bad thing piles up. Tooth's cancer, the attack, my own mind, Rapunzel's life up until now, my life, his life, and that message. No, not a message. A threat. Fingers shake. Lips tremble. Wonder if today is even real. She's laughing and playing with the loose threads on her jacket. The one I gave to her. It's torn down the middle. But she still wears it. Watch her kiss the drawstrings. And the world begins to shrink.

The world gets smaller and smaller as the week ends. Rain goes sideways in the street. I sprint across the parking lot. Scrubs soaking, my umbrella lying on the kitchen counter. Merida laughs and throws me a paper towel. My boss makes me change. Don't want to contaminate the operating room. Ten surgeries are shoved into one day. By the end of it, my fingers are shaking. We're sitting on the floor just outside the OR. Me and Merida. Red curls get in my eyes and mouth. She's nodding off. Someone walks by and she flinches.

"Not sleepin' on the job…of course not."

"Mer, no one's paying attention."

Cheek buried in my shoulder. Her hair smells like autumn. "Good. They can mind their own business."

People are nosey, though. Peeking behind hospital curtains and around closed doors. Nurses gossiping in the break room. Surgeons shrugging and saying, "It's not that impressive. I can finish that surgery in under three hours." Everyone fighting for attention. Because the orthopedic surgeons only make forty bucks a surgery and the heart surgeons make more. "How fair is that?" One says as he sips his coffee. "People need their musculoskeletal system. Sure you can't live without a heart, but people need me, too. I improve quality of life!"

Good for you, buddy. Keep complaining and maybe they'll raise your wages. I hear all the voices. People whispering. People talking. Whining. Crying. Dying. Her hair is warm against my skin. I rest my chin atop her head and stare at nothing. No one says a word to us for the rest of the day.

When I finally get off work, sunlight pours down. Hazy clouds like melted whipped cream. Grey and stirred with a sun sized spoon. Heat shoots down in beams. Makes me think of an alien abduction. They should be coming any second now. I'll ask them to take me along. Then I'll see Earth for what it really is, a blue marble in the middle of darkness. And I'll realize how small I am. How life can exist in the middle of darkness. It can.

In the middle of a cavern made of flesh and bone. There is a heart pulsing in the dark. I see it when I slice them open. It flinches in the light.

Someone says, "Thank you, Doctor," when I'm finished. But I don't pay attention.

It's a rhythmic kind of day. A "Heart Skipped a Beat by the xx" kind of day. I listen to it as I drive home. My apartment is a refrigerator. Each item chilled to the bone. I leave before I get freezer burn. Where am I going, you may ask. Where am I going in a V-neck with the sleeves rolled, the tightest jeans I own, and a couple condoms in my wallet? Today is the day, remember? Friday at eight, in front of the Regal theater. No one is making me go. But I am certainly not making myself go. Black threads wrap around my ankles, my wrists. I am pulled there by no one. There's the elevator. Quiet and waiting. Just like him. My eyes widen. Wait a second, stop. I slouch against the wall. Dizzy and feeling sick. Stomach turning over itself. I swallow hard and try to breathe.

Why am I doing this again?

Because the world keeps shrinking, dumbass. It won't go back to normal unless you face him.

I know, I know. Fingers trembling, I take out my phone. Someone needs to talk me out of this. Right now. There's only one person.

It rings three times. Then, "Hello?"

"Hey, Rapunzel."

"Oh, hi, Jack." Sunshine in her voice makes me want to cry.

"Yeah, hi."

"You just said that."

"Sorry." I clear my throat. "So, um, how are you?"

She can tell I'm lying, even through the phone. "What's wrong? You sound like crap, to be brutally honest."

My laugh sounds so fake. "Nothing gets past you, Punzie. I, uh, I just wanted some advice."

"Ok. Shoot."

She makes a sound like a firing gun. In my brain, I can almost see her cooking over the stove. Shoulder holding phone to ear, her other hand pretending to shoot the wall clock.

"Jack?"

"I'm still here! Sorry." Another throat clear. "But anyways, I just wanted to ask you about something. I know you said that you would help me find Pitch, and that's really nice of you. But I got something the other day…and I never told you about it."

"Ok." Her voice is calm. "What is it?"

"A letter from Pitch." It's like I can't get more than five words out.

"What did it say?"

Damn, she's so patient. "Well, he asked me to meet him. Tonight. In like an hour."

Silence. Silence.

"Rapun—"

"I don't think that's a good idea, Jack." Comes so fast I flinch.

"I have to face him." Grip the phone as hard as I can. "I swear, after the movie, I'll just go back home."

"What if he doesn't let you go home?"

"Of course he will." Right? Right? "He's a psycho, I'll admit that, but he's not evil. He'll understand, and then we'll part ways."

She takes a deep breath. Almost sounds angry. "Jack…why are you doing this?"

Oh, I don't know, because he attacked my friends. Because he's threatening you and calling you a bitch. Because he just wants me, that's it. And if I hand myself over, this will all stop.

"To make him go away. For good."

"He's a bad man."

I've never heard anything so true. But at the same thing, I've never heard anything so false.

"I know, but it's not his fault he's bad. Just trust me, I can do this."

She's probably biting her lip, twirling her hair. There's a dull thud. I think an egg broke all over the floor. Half of me wants her to beg me not to go. The other half wants her to say nothing. She does neither.

"You do what you want, Jack. Text me when you're home safe. And remember, I'll be here for you, waiting. Because I love you."

"What?"

She's gone. Hangs up at the speed of light.

Did she just say she loved me?

Rapunzel once told me that maybe someday, I would love her. But this…she's never said this before. These feelings are beyond orality. Maybe it can be described this way: a balloon, overfilled and exploding. Popped by socked feet and boots and bare feet and needles and spikes. The timing is horrible. Wanting to be happy conflicts with wanting to die. Pitch waits for me at the end of this long, dark hall. She stands behind me, waving goodbye. For now. Because she's willing to let me go. And isn't that a sign of real love? She told me to do what I want. Something Pitch has never said before.

Cellphone hits the ground with a dull thud. An egg on carpet. Wave goodbye to Rapunzel, Jack. Even though you know she's better for you. Even though you know Pitch is your doom. A little overdramatic, don't you think? No, not really. Humans have a way of choosing the worst for themselves. They understand the better alternative. But they don't think they deserve it. So they walk down the road filled with shadows and cry when it ends bad. And then everyone blames you and says that it's your fault. You put yourself in the situation. You were asking for it. You brought it on yourself. How unfair. I'm not good enough for the light. Even though I have friends who love me and a young woman that is trying to coax me out. They can't pull hard enough. His hooks are too deep in my flesh.

And all because he told me, "You are worthless. You are mine."

How can I escape those words?

I listen to them, despite the outcry. When I fail in the end, they will all blame me. So I walk backwards to the elevator. Waving goodbye and wishing I was better.

See ya later, Punzie.

This is a scene from a movie, it must be. None of this is real. Long fingers tapping the back of the theater seat. Golden eyes looking sideways at me. Black hair messy. He smells like gel and cigarettes. Relax. Take a breath and just watch the movie. I can't. Because he is watching me. Like usual.

He was standing in front of the box office. Waiting. A smile on his face. Tapping the tickets against his chin, he called out to me.

"Jack! It's been forever."

I stopped walking. Frozen bones and frozen muscles. That voice. It is a million knives dropping at once. A million icicles striking the cold ground. I wanted to turn and run, but his hooks pulled me forward.

"You all right, Jack? You look pale, and for you that's saying something." Laugh, laugh, laugh. It sounded prerecorded and fake.

"Hi, Pitch."

Those words were a release. Filters fell off, the camera changed angles. I felt the director's gaze on my back. My eyes flitted around. "Uh, can I go to the bathroom for a minute?"

"Of course."

When I looked at my reflection, I saw an emotionless zombie. Lightless. And then I realized that I had asked him if I could go to the bathroom. Asked him. Like some student in class. What the hell is wrong with me? I puked my guilt away and staggered out.

That stupid smirk on his face. "Oh Jack, you look even paler. Here, I got you a Mountain Dew. It should make you feel better."

"Thanks, I guess." It was huge. One of those extra-large sodas with the fat straws. Take a sip, then another. It did make me feel better. But in a weird kind of way.

He led me by the hand to the theater. Number nine. And now we're sitting in the back row. Try not to look at him, just watch the movie.

Fingers poke my shoulder. He whispers in my ear. "Hey, you thirsty?"

"No, not really."

"Come on, you look parched."

"Seriously, I'm fine."

The cup is shoved into my face. "Just drink it, Jack."

I wish I could move over. Arm rests are so confining. I'm in a box and I can't get out. A nod. "Fine, I'll drink it."

Ten seconds in my esophagus. Settling in my stomach like nothing at all.

He's still smiling. "Good boy."

I roll my eyes and keep my eyes on the movie. Some girl is building herself an ice castle.

"Wow, it's gorgeous." Lean closer. His face is right next to mine. "So much ice. Such power."

"Sure. Whatever."

Cracked lips graze my cheek. "You're still a smartass, I see. Haven't changed a bit."

"Neither have you." Seriously, can't I move over?

"I'll take that as a compliment."

My teeth are gritted. "It's not."

He laughs. Breath of Diet Coke and stale cigarette smoke. Something else, too. Something I can't pinpoint. His hand creeps over the armrest. Without a word, it settles on my thigh. Fingers wrap around my jeans. No, no, control yourself, Jack. I try to move over.

"Jack, it's ok. No reason to feel embarrassed." Tighter and tighter. "You've been alone for so long. You must be getting anxious."

"N-No."

"Aw, you're stuttering."

"No, I'm not." My hand looks for the Mountain Dew. Gives me something to do, at least. I take another sip, then another.

The movie goes on. Getting hard to focus. Sounds like I'm underwater. Colors melding and popping in front of me. Maybe it's the 3D effect. But it's not in 3D, dipshit. I rub my eyes and squint. The hell is going on?

Another sip.

Pitch is all over. Hand up my shirt. The other in my hair. Lips move up and down my neck. I'm too tired to stop him. Thank God there's no one else here. This movie has been in theaters for months, everyone's already seen it. Feel his atoms buzz against me.

Another sip.

Fading. In and out. It goes from blackness to color, darkness to light. It's all so heavy. Why? He's saying something. I shrug.

"Can't…hear you."

Lips keep moving.

I shrug again. "Can't understand..."

They keep moving. Darkness circles out and I see nothing. Demi Lovato is singing about letting it go. Letting what go? Guess I'll never know. I'm gone.

Let's fast forward this horrible movie, shall we?

This is it, ok, ok?

The moment I have been waiting for.

After all of that grabbing and touching in the movie theater, I am ready.

After the gas station and the fevered rush, the drug-induced craziness that made me a monster. After that, I am ready. Too ready. Mouth hot, tightening in my stomach unbearable. Blood flows everywhere. I can feel it. In the tips of my fingers, turning them red. Red like they're dipped in paint. And my toes are swollen. And my pelvis is…holy shit, it's melting inside my skin. Everything so heavy. My knees threaten to break beneath me. Tile floor slick beneath the bathroom lights. That's where I am. Bathroom with clawfoot tub that's bigger than my bed. Marble countertop, silver lights strung across the black walls. He painted his walls black, he painted his walls black.

Don't think about shadows slipping into you, Jack. Don't think about his dark arms around you, squeezing you half to death. No, no, no. I'm hugging myself, eyes closed. Open them, you useless shit. Pop open and gasp for breath.

There's a mirror in front of me. Almost shattered. I'm scared that it will break and the shards will go every which way. Six versions of Jack look out. Blinking, crying, looking like a frickin' moron. My eyes are rimmed in red. So bloodshot and dead.

Six eyes. Six faces sheened in sweat. Doppelgangers mean death. Oh dear God, let him kill me tonight. Let him move a little too fast, a little too hard. Repeating, repeating, repeating—

"Woah…"

A sudden wave of lightheadedness. The bathroom spins around me. I fall to the floor, curling up and into myself. Wish I could disappear. Tie myself up in a million knots and hide away. Pain digs deeper. Straight into my spinal cord. But this isn't new. Remember the car ride?

It's vague. After passing out at the theater, I woke up in the passenger seat. Nauseated. Half-asleep. That feeling you get when you haven't eaten and you're hungry but the thought of food makes you want to puke. An empty hole in the middle of me.

"Just hold on, Jack. I'm driving as fast as I can."

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Accelerating, stopping. Over and over again as the lights went from red to green. And I was biting my sleeve, knees drawn up to my chest. Like some psycho in the mental ward, I rocked back and forth. Because I felt…weird, like I wasn't exactly there. Wasn't exactly human or animal or anything. Just a bag of bones sitting in the passenger's seat.

What was it? My burning desire for Pitch?

No, no.

The more I felt, the more I realized. Want makes you hurt. It drives itself into you and pulses in your bones. And yet you like it more than anything. This…this wasn't want. Sure, there was the craving for Pitch, I felt it just beneath my jeans. But there was something else. A pulsating in my head and emptiness inside. Slow moving limbs. A world that morphed around me. Like I was drugged or something.

What the hell?

Pitch slammed on the brakes. Seatbelt cut into my skin. He actually thought to put on my seatbelt, that's nice, I guess—

But no, no. No time to think as everything went dark again. Pitch fading out of sight. His face is fuzzy in my memory. I can't remember what he looked like just then.

All I heard was, "Shit, shit. Ok, just hang on."

One time, I took Hiccup to an Imagine Dragons concert. We were jammed in the middle of the mosh pit. My elbow buried in some random girl's boob. His face smashed against a random guy's head. And no one could move and the heat was rising. Opening act screaming, his eyes rolling. Because we just wanted Imagine Dragons already. Hic stood behind me. All at once he was on top of me. Passing out on my shoulder. I dragged him out of the mosh pit on my own. No one would help me. Sprawled on the grass, he blinked and laughed the whole thing off. An apology for losing our place in the mosh pit, another apology for collapsing on my shoulder. Stupid Hiccup, why were you sorry? You think a concert means more to me than your safety? So we sat on a beach towel in the grass and watched it all. He's not a very good singer, but somehow he manages to harmonize on Radioactive.

What's the point of this? Well, there is a point, and it's sharp and cutting my eyes into equal pie charts. Because what Hiccup felt is what I was feeling then. Not just the slow crystallization of vision, the silence that covers your eyes but not your ears. But the guilt, too. I could hear Pitch cursing and feel the seatbelt beneath my cheek. It was perforated. The carpet was soft. But I couldn't move.

The car jerked forward and I couldn't help it. I hit the dashboard and somehow my skin busted open. Just how Hic is somehow able to harmonize and Rapunzel is somehow able to smile, despite all she's been through. It pulled open like a suture and blood rushed out. Tried to stop it. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Shouldn't. Felt it sliding, heard it dripping. And I felt guilty as hell. For some reason, I didn't want to ruin his car. Pitch was crying. I could hear him. I was crying, too. Even though I couldn't see, I knew the tears were there. Then my vision returned in chunks. He stopped in an abandoned parking lot. One right next to a gas station full of weeds. What happened next comes in pieces.

Pulls me out, hands shaking. Covered in stuff that smells like popcorn and Diet Coke. I guess he threw up on himself. Pain spiking in my brain. Tripping over and over again on the broken concrete. Dragged into the gas station on my back. Then he held me up because I couldn't walk. And he muttered something about a fever and stripped me down. My shirt was crumpled in the corner. My jeans looked like animal skin rugs on the wet ground. He took his clothes off, too. Probably because they were wet with tears and puke. So we're lying next to the cash register. Nothing but boxers and bare skin. He held me against him. The countertop was covered in dust. Breathe in, breathe out. His voice saying, "Shhh."

And I asked, "What did you do to me?" So soft and barely there.

He sighed. "I didn't think you would come willingly."

"Drugged me?" Is all I could say. Chest started shaking. "You drugged—" Everything fringed in darkness again. I started gasping.

He stroked my hair. "Relax, relax. You're ok now. It was just a reaction to the drug. You'll be fine in a few hours. I promise."

"You drugged me."

"I know. It's not that shocking if you think about."

"Not really." Head lolled to one side, his hands catching me before I hit the ground. He slid his fingers across my temples. Held me steady as my eyelids fluttered. "It's not really shocking at all…at all. Mhmmm."

"Now, now, keep your head up. Just be quiet. Relax and feel my hands. My fingers, the way they move against your skin." Massaging intensified. "Your skin is so hot, Jack. I can feel it all inside you, the anguish and pain."

"And the drugs?"

"Shut up. I told you, I'm a different person now. This is how I operate."

I give a hollow laugh. "By drugging me, by driving me out of my head? Yeah…yeah, that's a real nice 'way to operate'."

He draped his arms around my neck, resting his chin atop my head. "Are you still feeling bad? Because that is not what I intended."

"Shut up, asshole."

"No need for nasty words." His hands reminded me of sandpaper. "Lay down, I can sit on your chest like old times. Rub my knuckles over your body, make you feel better. Like I used to."

So I let him.

God knows why.

Knuckles found every mountain and valley. My skin was loose and sliding down my back. I rolled onto my stomach so I wouldn't have to look at his face. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't nice. Thumbs at the top of my spine. Fingers cold and clammy.

I said, "You seem…shaky."

"I apologize. Seeing you this way makes me uncomfortable." A laugh, a box of nails scattering on the floor. "Earlier, I actually threw up. Ruined my nice driver's seat. It's the nerves, I suppose. The fact that you're recovering a lot slower than I thought you would."

I laughed back at him. It was all so long and dragged out. "Your concern would be nice if this whole thing wasn't your fault. And I'm not kissing you until you brush your teeth."

"So is that an implication you'll be kissing me later?"

"No I…I didn't mean that. Not at all."

"You're lying, Jack."

There it is, that familiar tone. Of darkness. Pulled from the black void, wet and dripping. Feel it drop onto my face. Sticky. Like tar. I licked it off. Then I realized that it was just my saliva, threaded across my lips and chin. Drooling because the drugs made me numb.

"You're the liar."

I rolled over, catching him off guard. Slap, slap. Those cold hands hitting the concrete. He tumbled off me. Fallen. Hitting his head against a broken cabinet. A puff of dust exploded out. Like it was exhaling after years of bated breath. Settled all around his neck and collarbone. Pieces of grey and white touched his bare knees. His bare chest, too. And I lost contact with reality. He was no longer Pitch Black the criminal, the demon that hurt me and my friends. No, none of that. Just a slab of perfectly carved marble. A statue in a museum. Black hair hung in angles. Golden eyes turned glassy. He was a collection of fingers and toes and teeth. So many things I wanted to bite and suck and let inside. Because my brain is good at that. Stripping my morality and making me cold. I saw the world in grey. No more black and white. No more wrong or right. What is that anyways?

A bunch of made up things.

Like me and you.

Figments and inklings that float around a lonely artist's brain. We aren't so special. Neither are these "rules", these "laws" that tell Pitch not to kill and tell me not to love him. Maybe it was the drugs talking. But it was a desperate monologue. Their teeth gnashing as they rambled on and on a mile a minute and the dust settled even more if that's possible and the sweat was pouring down my forehead as I saw him as he was. Point B. I was Point A. Get between the two. Song for that moment, Between Two Points by the Glitch Mob. I heard it in between my ears. Each and every pulsating beat. That went. And went. Sick, sputtering, stuttering heartbeat. Hearing phantom music: a sign of insanity. Who gives a shit, though?

Who honestly gives a shit?

I don't.

Look at all the shits I give.

Rub my hands in the powdered concrete. Take deep breaths as he watched me and talked like he was underwater.

"Jack…Jack…"

"Sh-shut up. Bastard."

Teeth were gritted. Hands were clenched. An eye blink later, I was in the operating room. Pitch was nothing but a patient. Yeah…that's it. Scratch the skin of your forearm. It's burning. Clack your teeth. It makes the pressure go away. Pressure in your head that makes it burst.

"Jack?"

"I said, shut up."

And then I threw off my mask. Skin scratchy, salty. Deconstructed to primitive instincts that say simple things: fight. bleed. die. don't die. live. survive. claw. kill. lust, lust, lust, lust. and lust some more.

So simple.

Spoken from the mouths of children who don't know what they're saying.

I listened. Listened like hell.

It all poured out from behind my crappily repaired wall. Shooting through the cracks and Band-Aids. Was it my real self? God, I hope not. Hope is stupid, though. So I threw myself at Pitch. Let it all come rushing out. Grab his hair with both hands and kiss him so, so hard. F-Feel the lips and tongue and ivory teeth. He was so surprised. Stupid asshole. For a split second, I had control. And it was wonderful. I dug my fingers into his scalp until he gasped in pain. Then I dug deeper. I bit his lips and shoved my tongue down his throat.

Pull back. "Accept it." My voice was not my own. "Take your own medicine, you coward."

"J-Jack." He swallowed hard. Trying to regain himself. But no, but no. I wouldn't let him. I trailed that Adam's apple with my tongue. Up his jaw to his ear.

Knee in his stomach, I pushed him to the floor.

A whine, he actually whined a little.

Gold eyes wide. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. This is me." Deep, shuddering breath. "This has always been me."

And I wanted to puke because it was true. I've always been this way. Cold, lightless. Just like people say I am.

His face went from smile to frown, smile to frown. "I…Oh, Jack. You're so aggressive. So mean."

"If I'm mean it's because—"

"I made you that way?"

I rolled my eyes. "Please. No one can make me do anything." Think of Rapunzel the night we were attacked, only a few days ago. How she laughed at the man with the knife. 'Cause no one tells me what to do'. She would…well, I don't know what she would do if she saw me now. Are those eyes even capable of judgment?

Pitch struggled beneath me. "This reminds me of that night. Remember? In my car? You broke your thumbs and…well, to be honest, you scared me a little." He laughed and grinned. Little beads of sweat sliding down his temple.

"I remember. How you made me beg for it."

Yeah, I was growling. Now I remember how scary it sounded.

"You're easy to toy with." Lick his lips, teeth shining up at me. "You know you are. It's a natural instinct with you, to grovel. But right now, well, you've come out on top as they say." Touched my forehead with shaking fingers. "Hell, you're burning up. It must be what I gave you, making you this way. Making you…insane like me. I have an idea. I'll let you do whatever you want to me. Right here, right now, and then, when you've had your fun, we'll go back to my place."

"What'll happen there?" Like I didn't already know.

The grin split his face in two. "I'll thrash you until you can no longer walk. And then I'll drop you off anywhere you like. Your apartment, the nurse's apartment."

"Rapunzel's?" I said it before I could stop myself.

Everything changed. Pupils dilated, throat hissed. He grabbed my face, squeezed my cheeks together. "N-N-No. Not that blonde bitch."

I hissed back. "Don't call her that."

"It's what she is. She's trying to take you from me." Grip tightened. Felt the red fingerprints on my skin.

"What she does is none of your business! I met with you, didn't I? I'm here now, ready for anything!"

"You only came because you're scared of me!" He slapped my face. Tears stinging, redness palpable and real. No, don't flinch. Don't flinch.

I pretended to be a statue. "That should be enough. You almost got my friends killed this week, you're lucky I'm here at all. So take what you get," fists trembled, I felt the urge, "and be." Punch him right in the jaw. "Happy. You. Monster." I pelted him until he was screaming under me.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to slap you!" Just like that night in the bathroom, except it was, "I didn't mean to stab you!"

And he sat up, gathering me in a hug that could crush metal. Lifeless, I let him. The next few frames are fuzzy. He threw up a couple more times. Saw him crouched over, rocking on his heels. That is the real Pitch. His core is fear. There he was, this nasty creature covered in sweat and his own vomit. I wiped him down with my shirt. Some more crying. Intense and into my shoulder. Wet lips and wet face sliding all over me. Crying turned to biting. I swear he's bipolar. Teeth marks on my skin, I held him like a baby. For once, I was in charge. So I wrapped his legs around me. This man that is significantly taller than I am, all this leg and bone. And I gripped him hard. Hard enough to make him gasp. Before another word, a sound, I started pumping. Quick pace. Violent pace. Moaning and groaning into my neck as he moved with my hand and my arm and my shoulder blade. Each muscle doing its part. I thrust his hand down, onto me. We were one beast. Rhythmic. In sync. His hot face buried in my neck muscles. Me, peaking and screaming into his chest. Then it was over. Just like that.

There was no epiphany.

No sudden realization that struck me like lightning.

An empty mind and body and soul. Still yearning for more. Such child's play, our little rendezvous in the gas station. Grimy and dirty, amongst the dirt of a dozen years. We were naked on concrete. Gasping and kissing slowly under the broken lights. Lying next to each other, we could feel everything. The pulse, the rapid eyelash beats. If simple foreplay made us one, what would sex do? Would we combine into some ultimate form? Ascend reality, climb into our new, otherworldly bodies and drift off into space?

Stupid ideas.

Those drugs made me idiotic.

I rolled around in my hallucinations.

"Ok. I fulfilled my end of the bargain, what about you?"

Slow composure. He came back to himself. "Oh, I cannot wait. I will…ruin you."

"Like you haven't already."

He laughed. I laughed. And then we slipped our boxers back on and drove to his place. Leaving our dirty clothes behind. Because I was desperate.

Now I'm here, staring at a clawfoot and wondering why he painted his bathroom black. In cotton boxers, feeling the bulge grow. On top of that, brown cargo pants. We dressed when we arrived. Pitch says it'll be more fun, tearing clothes off each other. I think of that. Eyes roll around my sockets. Hear the door open. It hits the wall.

"I heard you fall."

"Yeah, I fell." Shrug. "So what?"

"So…I was worried. I've come to help you, per say."

"Per say?"

"Yes, per say." He takes a deep breath. "And now I shall help you."

He picks me up. Brings me to the big, black bed surrounded by big, black walls. Four poster and deeper than a sea. So cold and dark under me. I sink in. Amongst silk sheets that feel like layers of skin. Already coated in dirt and grime. I gasp. Lungs are tainted the moment I breathe. Body tainted the moment he touches me. He does not hesitate. A sailor in these seas. Standing at the wheel of his mighty ship. I am the ship that rocks beneath him. The waves that are tossed against his hands. He feels every inch of me. My crests and pitfalls. Every fold of skin. I-I'm burning. Everything comes in metaphors. Because this is the moment I've been waiting for and now it's here and I cannot stay. At least, not mentally. So I force myself away. Into a different place. A vast ocean full of sharp rocks. His fingernails tickling my collarbone. He runs his tongue over my scarred wrists.

Out of body experiences. Few and far between. I look up at him, eyelids fluttering.

"Pitch…I can't breathe."

His nose brushes mine. "Or think."

"Or feel."

"Or cry."

We go back and forth. Whispering to each other in the dark. He settles on top of me. Knees straddling my waist. Muscles in my abdomen seizing. Deep inside, my pelvis is on fire. White bone aflame. Four layers separate us. Boxers, skin-tight black skinny jeans, baggy cargo pants, more boxers. Straight through from him to me, me to him. We're some sick four tier cake without all the trimmings. Naked and nasty. No one wants to buy us. Which makes me kind of sad.

His lips are dry when they graze my neck. Shit, shit, shit. So much pent up heat behind those teeth. He begins. Sucking hard on my collarbone, digging nails into my flesh. Kisses move up and down my chest. Tongue circles my navel and I'm moaning.

He laughs. "A little early for that, don't you think?"

"No." I shake my head so that the whole room spins. "I want it, just give it to me already."

Saliva pools. Feel it sliding across my skin. "My, my, so eager tonight."

"Stop with the games." Teeth are gritted. "You said you were gonna thrash me, so do it, you coward."

Hell, how I wish I never said that.

Pitch bites down on my shoulder. "Fine. Fine, fine, fine!"

Kisses are angry and fueled by sweat. Growls and hisses punctuate the silent. He holds me down with his knees buried deep in my thighs. It hurts. Feels like knives in my never endings. And I can't breathe or think or feel or cry. Words, words, words. They're blasted in front of me.

Pain.

Pleasure.

Guilt.

Shame.

Fear.

Life.

Red lines all over me. Popped buttons and torn zippers. His bony knuckles suddenly wrapped around me. A yank, a twist, a pull. I'm one of those Bop It's and he's the demented child playing with me. Too fast. Too fast. Too late. I scream into his neck. And then he's going down on me and my toes are splaying. Curling. Thick, wet tongue running up and down every last inch. Inside, outside.

I scream some more. "Shit! Shit!"

Because he's better than I remember. So much better.

He flips me over. Thrown back onto the bed with the force of a wild dog. He spits and goes to work.

Can you say ultimate pain?

Can you say horror and terror and death?

Sure you can. I know I can. That is what I feel. A million new spaces created, all of them shrieking in a voice that is not my own. Fingers dry and pushing. My eyes water as I scream. Violent, fast. Grunts fill my ears. An animal is out to get me. He enters me and I am lost to a sea of red and pain. Then darkness comes.

Like a bitch, I pass out. I'm gone.

And when I wake up, because I know I wake up, I have to. No one's dying tonight, right? I wake up, wake up slowly and with eyes half-open. Wake up, Jack, you useless piece of shit. When I do, I'm sitting against bars. Strong bars, thick metal bars colder than the OR.

Around me?

Darkness.

Above me?

Emptiness.

Behind me?

Unknown.

I fall asleep again. Wake up again. Fall asleep, wake up, fall asleep, wake up.

Up, I'm up again! Take a deep breath. But I can't. Lick my lips. But I can't. There's something across my mouth. Can't touch or taste it, but I know what it is. The roll of duct tape on the floor helps me figure it out. There's nothing to look at. No lights or sounds or smells. Only the faint whiff of metallic stuff. Something flickers overhead. Circles of light upon the ground. Look fast, Jack. A puddle of blood, that's what that is. Red and wet beneath my knees. Light goes out again. Feel my shoulders shaking, nostrils flaring as I try to breathe. My hands are handcuffed to the metal bars.

What the hell is happening?

Ok, ok…let's play a little game. Make things fun, ok? Like a giant puzzle or a round of charades. There's duct tape, a dark room, blood, and handcuffs. Any conclusions? Ask the audience, phone a friend. Think about it. It all means something. Two words, first word, one syllable. H….he? No, no, hel…held? Yes, it's held. Ok, second word, two syllables. Another h. High? Horoscope? Heteronormativity? No, you dumbass, put the pieces together. It's hostage, isn't it? Good job. I'm being held hostage. No shit, Sherlock.

So I wait and wait and wait until a thought occurs to me.

Maybe Pitch is down here, too. Whoever took me must have taken him—

No, you idiot.

My inner voice is laughing at me.

I cock my head. Why am I an idiot? Why wouldn't he be down here?

Because he's the one who tied you up, genius. Look at your bruises. Those aren't just from sex. Look at your face, the right half purple and black. And your wrists, bloody from trying to break free.

No…I've only been down here for a few hours at most.

Somehow, I see my inner voice shake their head. No, you've been down here for three days. It's Monday and you missed work. They'll probably fire you.

But how did I not notice? Time can't pass that quickly.

Of course it can. He drugged you, remember? He drugged you at the theater and he drugged you again. In his apartment. After you passed out. Injected you with a bunch of crap. Time means nothing when you're out of your mind. Because time is logical.

Cock my head to the other side. He?

Pitch, you idiot. Pitch did this to you. And no one knows that. No one will look for you here or find you. Ever. You lost, Jack. Gave in to those sick desires and look where you ended up? In a locked room, naked and bleeding all over yourself. And he'll never let you go. Ever. You got a second chance when you broke out of that ice. You can't cheat death twice, Jack.

Yes, I can.

What?

I nod, bits of memory flashing in my brain. In the hallway, leaning against the wall. The phone call, her voice, her words:

"I don't think that's a good idea, Jack."

"I have to face him. I swear, after the movie, I'll just go back home."

"What if he doesn't let you go home?"

"Of course he will. He's a psycho, I'll admit that, but he's not evil. He'll understand, and then we'll part ways."

"Jack…why are you doing this?"

"To make him go away. For good."

"He's a bad man."

"I know, but it's not his fault he's bad. Just trust me, I can do this."

"You do what you want, Jack. Text me when you're home safe. And remember, I'll be here for you, waiting. Because I love you."

Eyes widen in the dark. Someone knows I'm here. It's not over. I won't die. I lean forward and whisper her name into the darkness.

"Rapunzel."

A/N: Ok, I'll take the risk of sounding desperate (lol) but come on, people...I love the likes and the follows, but just one review on this new chapter, just one ^^".


	9. Final Stage: Don't Just Pray, Act

Jack

When I was young, the world ended. There wasn't any apocalypse. Four horsemen did not ride up out of Hell and set fire to the Earth. No. In truth, the world didn't even end.

My world ended. And that is an entirely different thing.

My world ended several times.

One: when I died in the lake. It was cold that day. All the black trees stood frozen and silent. They didn't even try to help me. Bastards. Me and my sister were skating, something we did every winter. Routines do not exactly scream danger. That is what makes them routine. You never expect to die while washing the dishes or driving to work. These things seem too mundane. Too simplistic. When we think of death, we think of the abnormal. I blame this on all those books and movies and TV shows that treat death like this rare and strange thing. Like when the alien bursts out of John Hurt's chest while he's eating dinner. When Roy Batty gives that beautiful speech before dying in Blade Runner. When Sirius Black is blasted by his cousin and then drifts off into the Veil. When Sister Mary Eunice is tossed down a staircase in American Horror Story. All of these deaths are so slow, so perfect, so shocking.

I cringed when I watched Alien. I cried when Batty died. I threw the fifth Harry Potter at the wall after that chapter. And I watched, unblinking, as that Satan possessed nun fell in slow motion to her death.

But in reality, death is boring.

You don't really get any last words. If you do, they usually don't make any sense. Preparing a soliloquy is kind of impossible. In real life, you die like Myrtle in Great Gatsby. You die like Bambi's mother. Or you die like the hundreds of side characters that don't even have any screen time.

So when me and my sister went skating, I wasn't thinking about death. Because I was going to die in an epic way, right? It happened so fast, I didn't have time to say anything clever.

Ice cracked beneath me. I fell in, swallowing as much water as humanly possible. Because I was gasping like an idiot and didn't what to do. There was no slow-mo. Bright blue bubbles floated by. Frozen. Glass and crystal spinning around me. I think I smiled at the last second. Maybe? But even that would be too cinematic. Then I spent an eternity in a black lake. Pushing my way past water that was way too thick to be water. Feeling heavy and tired and sick and dead. And then the light came and I was alive. Somehow. After that, I was different.

My world was different. Circumstance pulled me down a different path. I learned not to mind.

Two: when my sister died for real. This was never supposed to happen. She was younger than me, which automatically makes her more important. On the ladder of worthiness, she was at the top. Brown hair. Brown eyes. This adorable spattering of freckles along her cheekbone. I saved her once. On that lake. You can't cheat Death twice, I guess.

He came for her a few years after that. When my family was sighing in content. I was alive. So was everyone else. Sure, I had a few emotional problems, but if you swept that under the rug, we were perfect. Things were more than perfect. Terrible things happen when you least expect.

As corny as that sounds, it's true. Life is a cynical bitch. It isn't sad if things go from shitty to even more shitty. That isn't sad. That's just pathetic. Like falling from a curb. But when things go from perfect to Hell…well, it's devastating. Falling from the Empire State Building is a lot more intense. People want to read about that. Everyone wanted to talk to me after she died. Say stupid shit like, "Oh, I'm so sorry" and "She's in a better place".

God, I hope so. Because the last place she was in sucked. Just sucked. A gurney covered in her own blood. Body broken and spilling out. I ran alongside her as they wheeled her into the ambulance.

She was dead before they even opened the doors. I know it. She died beneath my fingertips. It was slow. Blood slipping through her veins. Her body broke. I dropped an hourglass once; it kind of looked like that. Except the blood was sand and I didn't feel so empty. Brown eyes went dark. That light went out. You know, the light of life? That glimmer inside you that lets others know you are not just some emotionless zombie.

People said that my light was gone.

I was alive, but it was gone.

Apparently, that's what made me such a good surgeon.

It was a car. Not even a normal car. An evil car that banged her up and drove away. Of course, there were people in that car. Evil people that I could not imagine because I looked for the best in everyone. And I still do and that is why I am a mess.

I tried to forgive those people. But never could. I never blamed the doctors, it wasn't their fault. She was dead before they even opened the doors. So now I hardly ever drive and when I do it's with a pit in my stomach. Turning it into a joke makes things better. Laughing at the road and the traffic lights and the stop signs that no one takes seriously. But inside, I'm afraid. Always. Not of killing myself, of killing a little girl that's playing in the street. It could happen. It happened to her.

For six months after her death, I couldn't ride in a car. I puked every time I sat in one. My mom told people I had "carsickness". No, no, it wasn't the motion or the whiplash or the blurred shapes outside. It was the sound of wheels that crushed my sister's bones. Sound of engines that punched a hole in her chest. The feel and look of a windshield that turned red with her blood. It was the smell that overcame me. Gasoline and iron. Every rock, bottle cap, piece of plastic that we ran over was a piece of her. Imagining my little sister strewn out across the street. Choking on bile and blood and her tiny smile that I saw every night. I hung my head out the window and threw up all over the side of the car. And my friends' parents or my grandma or my mom or whoever was driving, would ask if I was all right. Seriously? I'm sitting here, so nauseated I can't even walk, and you ask if I'm all right? Yeah, I'm just dandy. Dandy as hell.

I've grown out of that. A therapist once told me that I would. Once I "let go and learn to accept what I cannot change", all of my problems would end. It's not that I learned to let go. I learned to forget. My sister is not even a name anymore. I simply call her "my sister". And when someone asks what her name was, I say, "Does it even matter?"

What even is letting go?

You can't tie up your problems in a burlap sack and drop them into a river. Problems are not hands that you just stop holding. Problems are all jumbled up inside you. They float outside of you, too. No one ever tells you that. You can't just look inward. Sometimes the world is the problem, but you can't change that, can you? And that is a completely different way of thinking. A completely different approach.

No therapist can help you let go of the world.

The third time my world ended was last week. When I fell out a window and met a woman. She was afraid, too. It's hard for us to understand each other's fears, but we're trying. She has a sun tattooed on her body. I have the adventure of death on mine. Her eyes are wide and full of things I want to know about. My friends are my friends. But she is something else. We share something. And it's not that we're two broken people trying to save each other. She isn't some manic pixie dream girl. I'm not some lost boy. We are two people who've been through a lot of shit. And our shit just happens to line up. Everyone has been through something.

Hiccup was in a plane crash. Astrid watched her life crash around her. Crash into alcohol and drugs. They both wanted respect and love and independence. Their shit lines up.

Merida's been shunned by her entire life. By her mother, her friends, her family. She just wants to live. Tooth wants to live, too. That's it, that's all they have in common. But that's all they need. Their shit lines up.

I don't know about Aster or Ruffnut or Flynn or the millions of people that walk around me every day. I do know that we've all been through something. And if you want someone, look for someone that understands your shit. First, understand it yourself.

Understand.

Yourself.

Last week, my world ended. But in a good way. The "this world is so lame let's just start over" kind of way.

Right now, my world is ending. Not in a good way. My mind has been roving for the past few hours. Or has it been days? I'm still in the dark, pressed up against cold metal. Blood dries on my skin. I'm raw and shaking.

Water droplets in my eyes. Are they real or not? Can't see, can't see past the bridge of my nose. Skin semi-wet, freezing inch by inch. I'm one of those rogue polar bears that has no friends, no food. Wandering the arctic, looking for seals and trying to kill a walrus which is stupid and suicidal. I paw at their hides and bites into thick leather. And they laugh and gorge me with their tusks. That's me. Lame, alone, and sitting against a metal frame, hoping a walrus won't gorge me to death. Freezing on a melting iceberg, floating out in the middle of nowhere.

There is an apple core at my feet. Pitch gives me food sometimes. It's all so blurry. Fading into background static. But the apple is brighter and the sound of birds chirping grows louder and louder with each second. Like I'm going back in time as I roll the apple core beneath my foot. Think of the outside, the sky, the birds. Great, now I'm hallucinating.

There's that pit in my stomach. The carsick feeling. So I lean against the metal and close my eyes.

I say her name again, "Rapunzel."

Maybe she'll hear me. Telepathy is a thing, right?

Rapunzel

Three days ago…

"Jack…"

I say it into the back of my hand. Quiet, breathless. With the fan spinning overhead. My apartment is so empty. Jack was right, assuming that no one lived here. From the outside, it looks vacant. Kind of creepy. Kind of odd. Kind of like me.

Take a shuddering breath. It rattles my ribcage. I'm sitting on the blow-up mattress. Propped up against the wall with a pillow behind my back. Wearing nothing but an Imagine Dragons concert T-shirt. Purple underwear is pulled down to my ankles. These are nice. Cotton and comfy with a little bow in front. A cute pair of undies makes me feel good. Don't know why. It's the way they feel on my hips and thighs. Safe. Soft. I bunch the fabric between my fingers. Half-smile on my face. It's been there for a while, for the past half hour, actually. Sweat beads on my forehead. Sticks to the roots of my hair. Fingers tremble, heart races fast. You can probably guess what I've been doing.

Yeah, I'll admit it. I'm a woman and this is what women do. Even though no one ever talks about it. I'm allowed to explore every inch because it's my body.

My body.

No one owns this. They can't purchase me with their eyes. My hands know the curve of my waist, the knobs of my knees, the crevices and dips in my skin. I am a map. People may walk over me, cross me, try and find my secret places. But at the end of the day, I hold the legend and key. So with that warmth in my hips, I settle into the mattress and start again.

Slow and circular. Eyes closed, I let his name come out again. "J-Jack… Jack…"

Faster now. Rocking back and forth and listening to the stick and unstick of my sweaty skin against the mattress. Work up a good rhythm until it feels like I have to pee. But I don't really. That's it, the sign that I'm almost there. Pushing myself over the edge isn't hard when his face is on my mind. Part of me feels dirty for thinking about him this way. I know he loves someone else right now.

Still can't believe I said "I love you" on the phone. What a doofus. What a needy little child. I've said it before. Men paid me an extra ten bucks just to say it to them. Twenty to say it in an earnest way. And thirty to say it while straddling them, half-naked, pulling at their collar with a few slim fingers.

So cheap. I used to be so cheap…

No. That's not right. There's nothing wrong with selling words. It was wrong because she made me. Because she'd slap me if I didn't. Because the Nightmare King would beat me with a coat hanger if I didn't do it right. A working girl can still have her dignity. But a slave can't. And now that bastard is with Jack. What if he makes him a slave, too?

My muscles are spazzing. Toes curl, teeth grit. Go harder and faster until I reach it and the warmth floods everything. Jack's face is in front of me. Blurry, not very real. I'm tired now. Think I'll take a nap.

I dream of him.

This dream is full of apples. All kinds. Macintosh, fresh from the sink and wet in my mouth then dropped from my teeth and rolling across the white ground. Gala, pastel and sweet like paint dripping down jaws and necks and bones. Fuji, fat and round, they're swollen pennies on my tongue. Drop it to the floor, to the dirt, to the white tile in my apartment. A weird dream, focused on apples. I roll over and I'm lying atop a whole mountain of them. Seriously?

"What the hell? Apples?"

"Yes, apples. I thought you liked apple pie?" Jack is walking across the mountain, a huge grin on his face.

I grin back. "Why are you infiltrating my dream?"

He shrugs. "Cause I can? I don't know." He sits on a pile of granny smith. "So, what's wrong with you?"

"What?"

"What's wrong with you? There's gotta be something wrong with a person that dreams of apples."

I roll my eyes. "You are such a douchebag. It's just a dream, I don't know. One time I dreamed I was a princess that had a pet chameleon and Eugene was a thief that wanted to own a castle. Dreams can be silly sometimes."

He stares at me, his eyes blank. "I don't understand half of what you just said. You ramble on and on like a crazy person. It's unbecoming."

"Well… you're unbecoming!"

He smiles again. "Punzie, I'm just kidding. No need to be all serious."

"Sorry. I just, I'm not used to you being this sarcastic and funny. Just wondering, why are you acting this way?"

"I'm always funny."

"Yeah, but not like this. You look so…" Squint my eyes, look at his face.

"So what?"

"So happy. Like genuinely happy. Most of the time, you have a shadow across your face and your eyes are all dark."

He shrugs. "This is dream Jack, not real Jack. So I guess this is how you wish I would be."

"That's kind of sad."

"Yeah, it kind of is."

For a second, his face is straighter than a board.

Kind of like the "Mourning Lady" in the museum I went to when I was young. I left the house rarely. Mother took me to the local Good Will to go clothes shopping and to the local art museum. That white museum full of silence, portraits staring at nothing, and marble statues in the garden. There was one painting of a woman with empty eyes and a slight smile. She was the "Mourning Lady", but she didn't look all that sad to me. Mother told me the sadness was in her eyes. I looked for it every time I went there. And now that's where I look when someone tells me they're sad. Straight into their eyes. The sadness is always there.

The museum was a fun place. Every Tuesday, there was a charcoal class out in the open air. Students with smudged fingers, black beneath their eyes. I went to one once. Mother sat next to me, her long dress dangling above her ankles. Teeth biting lips, rubbing her foot against her calf. In that moment, she actually looked quite kind. Long hair flowing down her back and a smile on her face. And beneath her toe, she was rolling a mushroom. A mushroom of all things. Probably plucked from the dirt by a hungry bird. Early in the morning when the dew is soft and dripping down plant stems, brainstems, too. She found the cap and absentmindedly pushed it around with bare toes. Her sandals were next to my feet.

I looked up and found the art instructor in front of me. Wavy hair, your typical retired high school art teacher that's looking for some newfound meaning in his life. I spun my charcoal piece in my fingers. Waiting to be evaluated. Mother smirking beside me. In that ridiculous dress with the long sleeves and heavy hem. I smirked back. Afraid. And then she said—

"Hello, Punzzzzzzziiiiieee? You listening to me? Stop flashbacking and look at me."

"What?" I whip around, kicking an apple in Jack's direction. "And stop ordering me around! This is my dream."

He raises his eyebrows. "Is it? If it's your dream, then change it."

"I can't." Another kick, another apple.

The apple hits him in the stomach. He's unfazed. "Why not?"

"I don't know. I think it's because of what happened to you." I run my hands through my hair, start pacing back and forth across the apple mountain.

"What happened to me?"

"You went with him, Jack. You went with Pitch. And I let you go, that's the worst part. Now it's gnawing at me, I think something's wrong." Green eyes look at a nibbled Gala. Are there worms in my dream? "I told you he was a bad man and you went anyways… why did you go?"

"How should I know? I'm just a figment of your imagination."

"Whatever."

Jack is sitting on a rotten stump. It wasn't there a second ago. But it's a dream, so I play along. He pulls a grape out of thin air. "Here, have a grape."

"Okay…" I peel the skin off before eating it.

"Wow, Punzie, that's a little gross. Now the grape looks naked."

I laugh. "Then don't look at it." After popping it into my mouth, I wrinkle my eyebrows. "It's sour. Disgusting."

"Then spit it out."

"I wish I could spit this feeling out. This nagging in my stomach."

"Why don't you touch yourself again? Might help take the edge off." He's smirking like the Cheshire cat.

My face is hot. "H-Hey, get out of my head. That's the first time I've done it in, like, months. Okay, maybe it's only been a few weeks, but still. It's perfectly natural. And I trust myself. I know my body, my mind, and there are no secrets. Doing it alone is better."

I'm not really talking about doing "that", though, am I?

Jack lies on his back. Looks at me upside down. "Being alone can be nice. But being lonely sucks. You need friends, Punzie. You need to trust again."

"I'll trust people when I'm ready. What I need to do is help Jack, the real Jack."

"You don't even know if he's in trouble."

"But I can feel it! I've been thinking about him ever since that phone call. And not just in a sexual way, you perv. His name won't leave my head. I just know he needs my help."

Silence.

"Okay, Punzie, you do what you have to do. Remember what happened to Sirius Black when Harry thought he was in trouble?"

"No."

"He ended up dead. So just be careful." Jack glances at…at nothing. Something he can only see. "I'm sorry, but you have to go. You can't sleep forever. Wake up already, dummy."

"No, not yet. I still have to figure thi—"

The ceiling fan spins overhead. I'm staring at it, going cross-eyed. Get up. Slowly. Deliberately. With my hands sticking to the blow-up mattress.

I glance around my apartment. Grocery bags and egg cartons and clothes folded up on the floor. I'll have to leave it all behind. And my paint. Sitting on top of the fridge with all my brushes.

I'll have to leave it all behind.

This call to adventure is coming awfully late. I know I'll be back here, obviously, but for now I need to look. Don't know where. Don't know why. But I need to. This feeling won't go away. I talked to Jack earlier today. It's late now. Shouldn't expect him to give me a play by play of what's happening, but I'm still worried. Maybe he called Hiccup or Merida?

With a sigh, I slip on a pair of faded denim shorts, grab my bag, and walk out the door. It slams behind me.

Hiccup

Seeing ghosts isn't normal for me, it isn't normal for anyone. Whispers in the dark are fine, beautiful, even. When I roll over, trying to get as far away from Toothless and his furry ass as possible, I hear the TV muttering. Astrid keeps it on as she falls asleep. It goes from the Nightly News with Brian Williams to Dateline NBC and then I zone out. Local Programming is never really that interesting. The alarm clock beeps on the hour and I swear I hear voices. Something in my bedroom must be possessed. Not the bad kind of possessed, the good kind. An object full of light and happy memories. Tossed under a bed, into a closet. And then I'll smile and drift off to sleep. Arm draped over the edge, the darkness reaches back. A ghost could be lying next to me, I would never know. But seeing them, watching their faces contort as they cry and glare at me…that is something I could never handle. So I'm happy I can't see ghosts.

I'm glad I can't see ghosts when I go to the local art museum. It's a small place, but I like it. When I go to this certain museum , I wander through the various rooms. All of them white. Empty. Walls filled with timeless pieces that no one ever looks at. Paintings and sketches from different eras. There's this one oil painting full of rowboats. Trying to float away, they're poised at the edge of the canvas. Men staring at the waves, pointing into a distance I cannot see. Sky is violet and blue, ocean tossed with flecks of green. Sea glass or jellyfish kingdoms. I always stare at it for a while. Not counting the minutes.

Behind me, another painting stares at my back. A woman cloaked in red, entitled "Mourning Lady", which makes absolutely no sense because she does not look sad. She doesn't look anything. She's there, she exists. With a face so contradictory that she could never have been real. But what if she was? That is what I think about.

But I'm not at the museum. Right now, I'm in a tiny bed at Merida's place, Astrid curled up next to me. And the alarm doesn't beep on the hour. I still wake up. I swear to the gods, people are talking. What the actual crap? I can't die like this. Death by ghosts, death by bandits or robbers. Not that I'm traumatized from the break-in. Oh no. It's not like I almost ended up in a body bag or anything. That doesn't scare me. Danger is so awesome. And pain? Love it.

Seriously, though, I don't want to die in my sleep. I'd rather kick the bucket in a wild place. Backpacking with Astrid, saving her from a wild bear or something. Who am I kidding, she would be saving me.

But I'm not in a wild place. I'm in Merida's tiny bed, eyes wide open. The voices are still muttering. Listen harder and realize that it's the lyrics to a Bastille song.

All of your flaws and all of my flaws  
They lie there hand in hand  
Ones we've inherited, ones that we learned  
They pass from man to man

Sounds great and all, I do love music. But it's, I look at the clock, it's midnight and I'm tired. Astrid rolls over, smacking her lips. She looks so pretty when she sleeps. Hair still wet and eyelids fluttering. When she took a shower, she scrubbed at her eyes like crazy. The mascara still didn't come out.

"Damn soap. This stuff is supposed to work."

"Rub harder."

"I am rubbing harder."

"Then just calm down and rub gently."

"Shut up, Hic! I am rubbing gently! I'm doing everything and it's not working!"

I laughed and almost cut myself shaving.

"Serves you right, you useless crouton."

Then I laughed some more and she threw an empty shampoo bottle over the shower. It hit me on the top of the head. Still smelled like oranges and sunset.

This room smells like dirt and cleaning supplies. If that's even possible. Tooth keeps everything spotless. Merida tracks in mud and dust. I walk in the dark. Tripping over random stuff like cardboard boxes and hockey sticks. This is the storage room. Our little bed nothing but a blow-up mattress. Not that I mind. I just don't like being so close to the ground. Higher equals better. But not in a drug related way. I should stop talking…

The door creaks when I open it. Dragging along the floor. Voices are louder. Music is stronger. Shadows move in the darkness, one with bushy hair, the other with impossibly long locks.

"Merida? Rapunzel?"

"Huh?" She turns around. Green eyes wide and bright. "Oh, Hiccup. It's just you."

"Yep. It's just me." Shut the door behind me. "Heard the music. It woke me up, just letting everyone know."

Merida turns the volume down. "Sorry about that. We aren't tired. Needed something to get our adrenaline pumping."

"You guys gonna go steal a car or something? Break into a bank?"

"No, Mr. Sarcasm. We're talking."

I nod and rub my hands together. "Ah, okay. Makes perfect sense. Forgive me for asking, but it's midnight and I'm pretty sure Rapunzel doesn't live here. So what could you possibly be talking about?"

"He's grumpy when he's tired." Merida looks from Rapunzel to me. "You don't live here either. Not permanently. Rapunzel can come over whenever she likes. Especially when it concerns Jack."

All of sudden, I'm not that sleepy. "Wait, what? What about Jack?"

Rapunzel shrugs. "I'm not sure. I talked to him earlier, on the phone. And I don't know, I'm worried about him."

"Why?"

She bites her lip. Like she's holding something back. Secrets are hard to keep. You hide them under everything. Rocks, dirt, old cellar doors , shoebox lids and tattered quilts. But when they come out, it's awful. The longer they've been away, the worse they smell, the worse they look and taste and feel. Brush the dust off them and hand them to the crowd with shaking fingers. People are always waiting for the truth. They won't believe it when they see it, though. I feel for her. I really do. She looks afraid.

Funny, Afraid by the Neighborhood is playing softly now.

I walk toward her, smiling. "What is it, Rapunzel? If Jack's in trouble, I think he'd want you to tell me."

"I guess."

Merida plays with a strand of golden hair. Comforting. Quieting. "It's a lot to say, Hic. Trust me."

I nod but inside I'm kinda mad. Why does Merida know before me? Why didn't Rapunzel call me right away? I would have answered. Even if it is midnight and my beeper could go off at any second. I would have jumped out of bed and run barefoot down the stairs.

Speaking of bare feet. "You're not wearing any shoes."

"I know. I forgot them in my apartment. Whatever. Shit happens." She walks up to me, puts both hands on my shoulders. "Sit down. What I'm about to tell you is kind of shocking."

Ease into a purple bean bag. The world seems to sink. Now I'm the one that's afraid.

Kneeling in front of me, she leans in. Freckles about to jump off that strange but pretty face. I see what Jack likes about her. No, scratch that. I've always seen what Jack likes about her. The second he told me about the girl that saved him. I knew. I knew she was perfect for him.

"Jack has made a stupid decision," she begins. "I don't know if you remember him talking about a man named Pitch Black. He was a friend of Jack's when they were young. Then he went to prison for attacking Jack, and he's been there for a while."

"Yeah… I remember that guy. Jack never really talks about him." I cross my arms, then my legs. It's weird hearing this stuff from her. "Isn't this information a little personal?"

She blinks. "So what? He's your friend, this shouldn't bother you. Just listen."

And the way she says "just listen" makes me shut up.

"What Jack never told you is that he liked Pitch. He liked Pitch a lot. They were boyfriends."

Silence.

They're both staring at me. Waiting for something, I guess? But this doesn't shock me. Not at all. I don't feel anything and I don't care. So I shrug. "Okay. Jack likes men and women. Big deal."

Merida shrugs back. "Well that's a shock."

Now I'm offended. I throw my hands up. "Why? Did you expect me to pitch a fit or something? Why would I care about Jack's sexuality?"

"I don't know. Your dad's a macho beefcake, you're pretty fit yourself. You're kinda… 'manly', I guess."

I roll my eyes about five times. "Wow, I didn't know you guys thought so little of me. My dad's an asshole, I'm a nurse, and I've drawn more than one sketch of Jack half-naked. I might even have one of him fully naked, but that's only because he's an anatomical artist's dream. So there you have it. I don't give a shit about that. He's my friend. I don't care. No one should care."

They're both smiling at me. One of them soft and barely there. One of them wide and toothy. A few seconds of that, then they vanish.

Rapunzel puts a hand on my knee. Kind of awkward but I don't move. Not an inch.

"You're a good friend, Hiccup."

"Yeah, but you're not getting props for doing what you should. So don't feel all proud of yourself for accepting something you should already accept."

"I know that, Merida." I glare at her. Look down at Rapunzel. "Now can someone tell me what's really going on here? What's wrong with Jack?"

Fingers grip my kneecap. A lot stronger than she looks. "That's why I asked you to sit down. Jack… Jack's been talking to Pitch for a while. He got out of prison not too long ago. And then he sent me to find Jack. Yeah, that's right. I was one of Pitch's girls, he was my pimp. Sounds like a lie, I know, but it's true. I found Jack, told him about Pitch, and then he asked me to help them meet. I'm an idiot for helping. But I didn't know what to do. I wanted to help Jack in any way I could. I really did." Is she? Yes, she's crying. I don't say a word. "I'm sorry, Hiccup. I didn't mean for this to happen. He went to meet Pitch earlier and I haven't heard from him since. I know it's only been a few hours, but still. I have a terrible feeling."

Before I can reply, she keeps going. Spilling every detail. Details I never knew about it. Like her story and where she came from. Like her relationship with Jack and the fact that she loves him. Like the fact that the robbers weren't robbers at all. Like the depths of Jack's problems. It's a lot to take in. And for a moment, I'm overloaded. This intelligent brain of mine isn't so smart after all. I feel alone sometimes, and afraid. Lately, I've been questioning my relationship with Astrid. Wondering if I'm good enough for her. That's what I wanted to talk to Jack about the other day. Because I want to marry her. But I don't know if I deserve her. I wanted Jack to tell me that I do. Then we could go ring shopping and it would be our biggest secret. I'd propose at the cliff side, right by the sea. And I'd give her a box with a bearded dragon inside as a joke. She loves those things.

I'm not at the cliff side now. I'm sitting in a bean bag chair. The world sinking lower and lower. Rings will have to wait. Jack needs me. The more I hear about Pitch Black, the more afraid I am. Jack always texts someone when he goes out. Jack doesn't like being alone. Not really.

So I groan and run my hands through my hair. "I've got a bad feeling, too. We have to find him. I don't care if he's sipping wine in bed with this freak, I don't care if he's completely fine. It's better to be safe than sorry."

Both of them grab my hands and yank me to my feet.

"Then we'll look for him together. I know some of Pitch's hiding places. I know where he lives."

"You're like an undercover agent, Rapunzel. Geez, you're awesome."

"You're pretty awesome, yourself."

And then we're up. Walking. Grabbing keys and a laptop and a few drinks for the road. Merida and I might have to work when the sun comes up. You never know when that beeper will go off. But for now, we'll forget about that.

We aren't at work right now. Right now, we're looking for a friend.

Tooth

There was a knock at our door at midnight. Subtle and scared. Something told me it was Rapunzel. That pretty little girl with hair like gold crowns. The crowns that go on teeth. Her teeth are pretty, too. Just like Jack's. I've never seen such white teeth. The kind that shine like freshly fallen snow. So perfect. If I could just get my hands inside that mouth…

Well, I don't know what I would do. It would be a pinnacle of my career, that's for sure.

Rapunzel doesn't have a job. At least, I don't think so. Nothing wrong with that. She works hard in other ways. I don't know her very well. But I can tell that she has climbed mountains. Metaphorical mountains made of fear and danger and violence. My eyes notice things. I've seen the scars along her wrists, tiny and white. And the scars on her shins and ankles. Her eyes are full of hope. Sorrow, too. Such an interesting person to look at it. Dentistry has made me detail oriented. Rapunzel has so many details. Like a painting.

Like the paintings I'm looking at now. Online.

Rapunzel knocked, Merida answered the door. She got out of bed. Rubbing her eyes and yawning. A light touch across my shoulders. Her fingers can be so gentle.

"I'll get it, babe."

"Okay… okay, if you're sure."

They talked in the other room. Quiet and fast. I almost walked out, but decided against it. Our sheets were fresh out of the dryer. Crisp as a bag of potato chips. You shouldn't eat those, though. They're bad for your teeth. All bundled up, a smile on my face, I rolled across the bed. I just couldn't leave. I was tired. Work was long, yesterday's karaoke session left my voice rough and my eye bleary. And sex with Merida always zaps my energy. Those gentle fingers, those strong Scottish teeth. The carpet does match the drapes. And it's sexier than anything I've ever seen.

Merida's side of the bed was warm. I buried my face in her pillow. Breathing in the smell of oranges and sunsets. The smell of after sex. It clung to my rainbow bangs.

They talked for a while longer. Then I heard Hiccup's sleepy voice. Something must have happened. They left in a hurry. She probably thought I was asleep.

Fairy-shaped clock ticked overhead. It's stuck to the wall above our bed. We bought it at IKEA a few months ago. I watched the hands move. Upside down. Boredom isn't something I often experience. I'm always busy. Or talking. Or daydreaming. But after a couple hours, I was bored.

Hello, internet!

Here I am. Browsing the web. The website for the local art museum is nice. Pictures of the main pieces. Ads for the latest exhibits. I stare at them. Amazed. There is a giant painting of a ship in stormy seas. Bananas spilling over the starboard side. Black sky scarred by lightning. The ocean likes to hurt itself. Rip the waves apart, bleed black and blue as the ship is sucked under. Terrifying.

Yet, beautiful.

Another painting. Watercolor, small and covered in light from an unseen source. There's a cup of hot tea in the center, sitting on a red table. Undissolved sugar sparkles and I see fairy dust. Third picture, an ink drawing of a vampire scooping up a young woman. Dark and sketchy, like the artist just pulled it out of thin air and slapped it on the page. I have the urge to chuck onions at the painting. It has that lifelike feel. Eyes glinting behind bars of light and shades of red. Blood seems so real. I'm inches away from the screen.

Art is a connection. It binds people together. Me to Hiccup to Rapunzel. All of us love to paint. Though mine is more of a secret obsession. I paint murals on the walls. When I was in college, I was a graffiti artist. Shocking, I know. Hood pulled up. Glasses rimmed in black. I snuck into the gymnasium, the upper-classmen dorms, the student center. I don't even remember what my point was. I was just trying to make statements. College was a good time. A time for books and internships and parties and equality. Being vice-president of the Gender Equality Organization and secretary of the Vegetarian Club. Walk on the edge, with my haired dyed red and blue and pink. I was cut in half. Right down the middle. Stars in my eyes. Glitter on my skin. Beautiful women were everywhere. They all tasted so good. Radicalism can be fun. But I came back to reality after becoming a licensed doctor.

Reality came back to me when I was diagnosed with cancer. Pull at my hair without thinking. It's still there. Still bright and shiny and rainbow-hued. I'll tell Merida. I swear I will. Talking to Jack made me rethink.

Everything.

Maybe I'll tell her tomorrow. Bake her some nice organic cupcakes and break the news.

That isn't important right now. This museum is gorgeous.

Art is still perfect.

As perfect as Jack's teeth.

I'm looking at the new fashion exhibit when the phone rings. Grope in the dark. It's under the bed.

"Hello?"

"Tooth! Sorry to wake ya."

Her voice makes me smile. "It's fine. I was up, anyways."

"Sorry for leaving without saying goodbye, then. I had to leave fast. Rapunzel thinks Jack's in trouble."

"What's wrong?"

"He went out with this asshole he used to know. It's a long story. But no one's heard from him all day and he never does stuff like that."

I'm not smiling anymore. "Oh my God. How can I help?"

"This is why I love you." Listen to her sigh. Then she's serious again. "But honestly, I don't know. We've been driving around for a few hours. Rapunzel's taken us to where this guy usually hangs out. Hic's trying to track his cellphone. Nothing's working."

I wrinkle my eyebrows. "How does Rapunzel know this guy?"

"Long story. I'll tell you later. Can you wake up Astrid? And get that Aster guy, too? I'll kiss you a hundred times and make you some apple tarts if you do."

This seems suspicious. "What aren't you telling me, Mer?"

A pause. She takes a deep breath. "We might need some muscle. It wasn't my idea, but we're trying to break into the asshole's apartment."

"That isn't the best idea."

"Of course it's not! It's the stupidest idea ever, but we're gonna do it."

Chewing on my lip, I get up and start pacing. "It's dangerous."

"That's why we need the muscle. Me and Rapunzel could kick some ass, sure. But a little backup never hurt anyone."

There's this fluttering inside that makes me wring my hands and pace even faster. Merida is so impulsive. She would ride off into the sunset, never to return, if I didn't hold her back.

She's already there.

Out of my reach.

Fingers close around empty air. They close around pieces of rainbow hair. I pull a few strands out. Watch them fall to the floor. All invisible and thread-like. Can't even see them on the floor. What if I pulled it all out? Yanked out every root. One by one. Then people would notice. Merida would notice. It's going to fall out anyways. In a few weeks, a few months, a year. Who knows? Who cares? Why hold onto something that will eventually leave you?

Just keep yourself busy. Never think about that stuff. Because everything goes away. Even this world will go away. Someday. So you keep yourself busy and forget that. But this is hard to forget. It's my life, my body, my hair. I dyed it pink and blue and green in college. I chewed at the ends when I was nervous. I let it grow and chopped it off. I let Merida run her hands through it. I let her shampoo it and straighten it. It is a part of me. You have to let go, though. Like that song in that new Disney movie. Haven't seen it yet. I'm more a DreamWorks fan, personally.

That's beside the point.

The point is this: Merida told me the truth just now. I asked her "what are you not telling me?" and she told me. What have I not been telling her? A millions things. The time for hiding is gone. Bad ideas are in right now. Good ideas are tossed to the wind. That's why I'll go and wake Astrid. I'll find Aster's number taped to the freezer door. And I'll cut all this off.

A pair of scissors in the dresser. A cheap mirror from the Dollar Store. All of it will fall to the bathroom floor.

How We Kill Stars is playing softly in the other room. I can hear it. A perfect song for an imperfect occasion. I bet it'll wake up Astrid, too.

Barefoot. Naked. Scissors in my hand. I walk out of the bedroom and turn up the volume. All the way. Kick Astrid's door open with one foot. She groans in her sleep and rolls over, blinking.

"Whaa?"

"Wake up, bitch. Jack needs our help."

"The hell?"

I give no answer.

Run to the bathroom, ready the scissors. I'm about to do it when I remember that I never answered Merida. The phone is lying on the bed. Crap. My attempt at being badass is thwarted.

Her screaming sounds all muffled.

"Uh….hi, Mer."

"What the hell are you doing? You just went silent all of the sudden. Thought you had a heart attack or something."

"Ha ha. No, I'm fine. Just dropped the phone." I'm sweating and grinning at the same time. "But yeah, yeah, I'll wake them up. Just tell me the address. We'll be there."

She sighs. "You're such a scatter brain."

"I'm your scatter brain."

"Cute. Now get a pen ready."

Get the address. Hang up the phone. Astrid is ranting about something. I ignore her and go back to my original plan. I'll get dressed afterward because cutting your hair naked is a lot more dramatic.

I sound silly. I know that. Cancer is not a joke. Not an accessory or a unique personality trait. I know that. But cancer is no longer an abstract concept for me. It is not something that weak people have. Don't pity them. Don't try to save them. Don't try to save me. This is my cancer. I will do what I want when I want to. And if standing naked in the bathroom, shearing off layer after layer, watching it stick to my sweaty skin and fall to the floor, if that makes me feel good, let me do it. Let me do it.

I do it.

It feels good.

Astrid says nothing. She's in the kitchen. Pulling on a leather vest, drinking a Mike's Hard Lemonade. She looks at me, then raises her hand for a fist bump.

Wait, I'm confused.

"Hiccup saw you at the hospital once. I don't remember how long ago it was. He didn't know you then." Take a long sip, smacking her lips. "He likes to go to that part of the hospital sometimes. His childhood buddy had cancer. He likes to see the people and talk to them. I guess he saw you there and never forgot your face. The first day we met you, he pulled me aside and told me. We've known this whole time. But don't worry, we would never tell Merida or anyone else."

I don't know what to say. So I smile. "Jack knows."

She smiles back. "Jack. Things always go back to him, don't they? I think that bastard is what holds us all together. And now we have to save his measly ass again?"

"I'll explain on the way. Merida sounded impatient."

"Doesn't she always?"

We laugh for a bit. I fist bump her. Never stop smiling.

I hold the door open for her. She leans against the frame. "I'm not saying this to make you feel happy or because I feel bad for you, but your hair looks pretty damn good that way."

"Thanks."

She shakes her head, eyebrows all scrunched up. "No. No. Don't say thanks. You shouldn't thank people for telling the truth. Let's try this again. Your hair looks pretty damn good that way."

"I know."

Her grin is beautiful and scary. "That's more like it. Let's go."

The door closes. The lights go off. We leave scissors and hair and sleepiness behind. We leave to the sound of Blackout. That song by Breathe Caroline. From their album, Hell is What You Make It.

Nothing could be more true.

Aster

I hate people.

Really, I do. One minute they're giving you shit at the Customer Service desk because they can't return the bloody scrapbooking kit they bought. And you tell 'em, ma'am, our policy says you have to have a receipt. Also, you said you got this two months ago, and we only have a thirty day money back guarantee. But she won't listen so she demands to see the manager. And you have get the bloody manager and explain the bloody policy over and over again.

People are little shits. Let me tell you.

Because the next minute they're calling you up in the middle of the night, asking for your help. Even though you met these people less than a week ago. They think you're their best mate or something.

But the real reason why I hate people is this: I care about them. Really, I do. So when they call me up in the middle of the night, asking for my help, I say yes. It's one of my weaknesses. Along with my weakness for bunnies and chocolate and all things Easter.

The girl with the rainbow hair calls me around 2:30 AM. I'm sitting on the couch. Empty Izze bottles all over the floor. Xbox controller in my hands, tongue between my teeth. I've been playing Skyrim all night. That game is fun as hell. My character's a khajiit with dreads and a badass scar across his face. I pause in the middle of a fight with a mammoth and a dragon. Damn phone calls.

"Yeah?"

"Hello, Aster?"

"Yeah this is Aster. Who're you?"

"Oh, uh, Tooth. Merida's girlfriend."

"Oh, the girl with the red hair. You're the rainbow-haired one, right?"

"Yes, that's me. Sorry to bother you so late, or so early, whatever it is. But my friends and I need your help."

"At two in the morning?" I unpause the game and try to hold the phone up with my shoulder. "I'm kinda busy at the moment."

"I'm sorry, I know you were probably asleep—"

Yeah, that's what I've been doing.

"—but we really need you. You're a tough person."

"And how is that relevant?"

"Well…we need to break into an apartment."

This is literally what she says to me.

"You ain't asking me because of my record, are you?"

"No, no! Of course not. It's just that we need strong people, someone that could kick a few asses, take a few names. You know, someone like that. And we thought of you. I know, you barely know us and we're asking you to do something illegal—"

"Listen, love, I've got nothing against illegal. If it's justified, I'll do anything. So explain the situation."

She starts talking about that pipsqueak Jack and some crazy boyfriend. Makes me think of this guy I beat up in prison once. This asshole that was trying to rape one of the younger inmates. Broke his nose with my fist. Felt his bones shatter and his blood come oozin' out. Sweet victory. Something inside tells me to do the same to this Pitch Black character.

I don't know what comes over me.

All I know is that now I'm sitting in a car. Next to the fighter with the braids. The rainbow-haired girl is driving. Except her hair is short, looks like she chopped it off with scissors. Astrid's been on the phone, talking to the blonde with the freckles.

It's hard to remember all their names.

She hangs up and explains this long ass story. Rapunzel says this and Rapunzel says that. Jack always texts back. Merida called him, Hiccup called him (what kinda name is Hiccup anyway?) and he hasn't called back. I don't get why they're so worried. Pitch sounds like an ass, but it's only been one day. No need to file a missing person's report. But they insist that something's up.

So I sit quietly, looking out the window. This car goes too damn fast. My leg shakes, my fingers tap.

"You all right there?"

"Yeah, yeah. Worry about yourself, blondie."

Astrid rolls her eyes and stretches out across the seat. Oh come on, really? Her legs are in my lap. And holy shit they're heavy.

"I'm tired." Yawning, her jaw makes a popping sound.

"I'm tired too, love. We all are. Ya think anyone wants to be up at three on a Saturday?"

"No, not really." Eyes closed. Toes stretching against the car door. "The only reason I would want to be up at three on a Saturday is because I'm having mind-blowing sex. But alas, here we are. And no one is having sex."

"A travesty."

"Tell me about it, you blue bastard."

I laugh. She laughs. Tooth giggles from the driver's seat.

We drive the rest of the way in silence. Astrid falls asleep. Starts snoring. I keep looking out the window. Think about the incident that landed me in prison. Going off to do illegal things makes a man remember. Makes a man regret. Sort of. I was a different man then. Prison changes ya. Trust me. If anyone's a bastard, it's that guy. Sprawled out on the floor. Bleeding. Coughing. I see it all. A play inside my head:

(Enter, Aster Bunnymund, new employee. We're in a small room, lit only by fluorescent light bulbs you can't see. Across the desk that seems to go on forever, there is a man. Tall, dark, but not very handsome. Menacing with hands folded. Aster thinks he looks like a praying mantis.)

Boss: Aster, we have to talk.

Aster: Yes, sir. You need an update on my presentation? Or maybe this is about that incident with the copy machine. The damned thing just wouldn't—

Boss (face redder than a police siren. He stands, knuckles on the desk.): This is not about the copy machine! And it's not about your temper tantrums or your tendency to break office supplies!

(Silence. You could cut it with a kitchen knife.)

Aster: So what's it about?

Boss: You. (Slowly sits down, adjusting his tie). You just don't belong here, Bunnymund. You're too…well, nevermind.

Aster: Too what, sir?

Boss (sigh): Insane, ok? I'll be perfectly honest, Bunnymund, but I've been gritting my teeth all month. Ever since you got here, you've just messed up everything. The whole office dynamic has been thrown off. And there are other things, as well.

Aster (raising his eyebrows because he knows what those "other things" are. More like who they are.): Sir, did a certain secretary tell you that I go to therapy?

(Dramatic music. Curtain threatens to fall on the scene, but this act isn't over. Not yet. Audience members clutch their seats as they lean forward, waiting.)

Boss: Let's not bring other employees into this, Bunnymund. This is about you and your impending termination from this company. (He looks at his folded hands as he says this. Not so menacing anymore. Male praying mantises are eaten by their mates, right?)

(Now Aster is ticked. Wound up, the watch in his left pocket. He touches it, thinks about using it as the blunt instrument that will be the focus of his murder trial. Killing his boss would bring such joy. But he's not that stupid. Not yet anyways. Lick his lips, silently curse that secretary and her obviously fake double D's. She gets the whole office talking about him.)

Aster: Well, sir, not to bring other employees into this, but are you aware that Jared Stone is currently attending AA meetings every Wednesday after work? Or that Connor Sharrock is having a gay crisis and he sits in his cubicle secretly taking pictures of you? Or that Lana Moreno poisons stray cats with bleach because she hates animals? Or that your precious secretary has been trying to seduce me for weeks and the only reason she hooks up with you is to make me jealous? Yeah, I know about you and her. Who doesn't? I can hear you two from the break room. Holy crap, I'm surprised the whole building doesn't hear you. So. Screw. You. You've got frickin' weirdoes in your company and if I'm too much a nutcase to work for you, I'm gone. No need to terminate me with all of the false power you think you have. Have a wonderful day, sir.

(Now the music has reached its peak and the audience is reeling with gasps and laughter. Aster is tempted to take a bow. Not yet, not yet. Let's relish in the look on Boss' face. How the desk no longer goes on forever. It's short and rather unimpressive. Aster turns to leave. Exit Aster…no wait, almost exit Aster. He still has something to say. Something to do.)

Aster: By the way, I hope this makes an indentation in your face.

Boss: W-Wha—

(The pocket watch is thrown across the room with much more force than necessary. Aster never knew he could throw so hard. It hits Boss in the nose. Smashing the bones, tearing the cartilage. Ok, maybe Aster threw it a bit too hard. But he goes for it anyways. Jumping on top of Boss, beating him senseless. The blood flies everywhere. And when he's done, he runs out of there, grabbing the wall, sliding into a cinematic hairpin turn. And Boss is bleeding and groaning but no one in the office thinks anything of it because they hear him groaning all the time. It's not until they notice that the secretary is passing out memos and not in the Boss' office that they decide that something's wrong. And the curtain falls, the audience claps, Aster is still running for his life.)

(End scene).

There ya have it, folks. Pretty lame, right? It's not like I was saving someone's life or taking revenge. I just beat a guy because he fired me. The end. I've changed the story before. I've told lies. Just to make it sound more exciting. More justified. But no, the real crime is nothing spectacular. Grandeur falls from sidewalks lit by starlight. No one is as amazing as they seem.

I keep looking out the window. Knuckles are itching to punch something. Maybe it'll be Pitch's face. Or Jack's face for making everyone worry. Part of me still wonders why I'm even helping. There's no sense in questioning it, though.

Time to be like my khajiit. Strong, smart, and a complete badass. If I go to prison again, it better be for something good.

Like saving a friend.

Astrid

I'll make this shit quick.

Because I am not the type to ramble on and on about my thoughts. My dreams. My fears. I like action. That's why I fight. Metal fences, running blood, sweat and tears and the look in her eyes, all of that gets me going. When my muscles pull. Sharp, painful. When my feet bounce across the mat. All of that is…

Crap. Now I'm rambling.

Forget that. It's useless. Here are the facts:

We park outside this ratty apartment building. Looks like the kind of place that crack heads hold up in. Merida, Hiccup, and Rapunzel are waiting for us. Hiccup's got a ski mask over his face. Idiot.

"I found it in the car seat!"

"Doofus."

We stand outside the building. Merida suggests that we split up, but Tooth tells her that's what stupid white people do in movies. Surprising coming from her. So we climb the stairs together because stairs are "quieter and less obvious" according to Merida. Like she has any burglary experience. Yeah, right.

The door to Pitch's apartment looks normal. Appearances can deceive. Rapunzel knocks a couple times. No answer. She speaks softly.

"Uh, hello? Jack?"

Nothing.

Hiccup presses his face against the peephole. "We outnumber you, you monster! Let Jack go free!"

I shove him aside. "Relax, Spartacus. It's obvious that no one's home."

Plan B goes into action. Aster and Rapunzel kick down the door. The apartment is dark and empty. Not much else to say. All that matters is that Jack isn't here.

I'm the first to leave. While they're gawking at nothing. Turning over items with their feet. Looking at every nook and cranny.

Stand in the hallway. Hands in my pockets. There's no sense in this.

"Let's go. He's not here."

Rapunzel follows me out. "Which confirms my suspicion. It's almost four in the morning, where could he be?"

"Don't know. But we should find out."

"Maybe calling the police would be a smart move."

"And tell them what, Hic? That our friend went on a date and hasn't come home? It hasn't even been one whole day. No, we can't call the cops." I pull his ski mask off and put it on my face. "We're doing this ourselves. Mission Save Jack has just begun."

Hiccup

Status update: we suck at rescue missions. After driving around all night, we decided to turn in. We're probably overreacting, anyways. Or are we?

Whatever. I'm taking a nap. Everyone is crashing at Merida's place. We'll try again later.

So much an epic mission, huh, Astrid?

Merida

No one drops a bomb on me.

I'm the one that does the surprising. Most of the time. But right now… I am lost. I am running from a bomb that just won't go away.

Black dot getting bigger and bigger. It's funny, how small it looks against the blue. An ant on your windshield that you want to flick off. But it won't go away. You try over and over again. Then you take off your Aviator's and clean them with your shirt. Put them back on, it's still there. It's growing. Ants don't grow. It must be a hallucination. Too much alcohol or sleep aids or whatever else you force into your body every day. Black dots on the bottom of your shoes. On your fingers and palms from drawing all day or typing on a typewriter and forgetting that you can't wipe mistakes away. It could be any of those things. Anything but your impending death.

I run, tripping over my own feet. The fairy wall clock ticks and ticks and ticks.

Because you know that bombs never fall on people like you.

Shadows cover the ground. I expect to look up and see a blimp.

People like Tooth don't die this early. Don't die like this.

Tooth is holding my arm, saying, "Mer? Merida, it's okay!"

People like Tooth don't die. Ever. They can't…

"Merida! Look at me!"

We're sitting in our bedroom. There is no bomb. No windshield covered in ants. This is our reality. And it's awful. Why didn't she tell me earlier? Why didn't she cry and tell me how scared she is? Why didn't she trust me?

I hold her against me. Cry into her shoulder.

Nuclear aftermath. Thrown pillows, stained shirts, and running mascara. We cry together.

I decide that I don't like bombs.

Who does?

But we'll get through this. I promise her that. Because I love her and she loves me. I grab her face, kiss her hard.

"I like your hair this way."

"I knew you would."

We collapse onto the bed. Kissing, groping, crying. Everything will be okay.

Rapunzel

Sunday. Not really a day at all, more like a day between days. A calm before a storm. I sit on a purple bean bag, reading a newspaper. Merida is at the police station, once again trying to get the cops to listen. We filed the police report yesterday. Because I found Jack's phone at his apartment, in the lost and found. The person at the desk said someone found it, turned it in, and left. Nothing was said. This is bad. Jack wouldn't just drop his phone.

So we filed it and waited. Waited some more. It's not a "priority", I guess. Merida is beyond pissed. We take turns researching and making calls. Fear eats away at me. We're looking in all the wrong places. I can feel it.

Hiccup and Astrid are eating breakfast in the kitchen. Sitting on the counter with their legs up.

Tooth made me take a break. Newspapers are boring. I find a story about that little girl that died on Jack's operating table. Her school held a memorial for her. Her parents are trying to sue the driver. It's a small thing. A quick article superseded by the story of the local pet parade at the baseball field.

"This is a really short article about that girl. Can't be more than three hundred words."

Hiccup gestures to the article with his fork. "Actually, it's three hundred and three words, I counted earlier."

"Whatever. But do you see this ridiculousness? The pet parade gets a whole page and this beautiful little girl gets nothing.

"Yeah, I know. It sucks."

"This is ridiculous. Dumbass people need to sort out their priorities."

"I know, right?" He takes a bite of fried egg. "It sucks. People suck."

"They really do."

Hiccup reaches for the pepper. He curses when he can't find any. "Is there a lack of pepper in this place?"

Astrid rolls her eyes. "Use salt."

"If I wanted to use salt, I would use salt. But I would like some pepper on my eggs, thank you very much."

"They're like the same thing."

"Yeah, you're right. Salt and pepper are exactly the same, except for the fact that they're called salt and pepper. But I can see how those two words sound the same."

Astrid rolls her eyes again. She tucks a stray hair behind her ear and folds her hands across her knees. "Then what are you going to do? Ask Tooth to go buy you pepper? No, that would be stupid. Clearly, there is no pepper in this apartment. So here is my suggestion. Use. The. Damn. Salt."

I can't stop laughing.

Hiccup grabs the salt shaker. "Fine. These eggs could use some salt anyways."

We go the rest of the morning eating and talking and reading the paper. Merida comes back eventually. Face as red as her hair. The cops don't care. Okay, now this is bad.

I throw the paper down. Tearing it apart with my feet.

"Okay. Okay. Now what are we gonna do?"

She runs her hands through her hair. "I don't know… I have no idea. Aster, wake up!"

The giant Australian is asleep on the couch. Merida throws a pillow at him.

I want to go down to that police station and throw a pillow at them. Or maybe a brick or a bunch of broken glass.

Another day goes by. Nothing.

Monday. I am alone. The employed go to work. I stay at home. Paint my toes with Sharpies like a preteen fangirl. They come home. One by one. Tired and half-dead. Aster deals with angry customers. Hiccup and Merida deal with actual half-dead people. Tooth deals with crying children. Astrid deals with punching bags and torn boxing gloves. I deal with my thoughts. I deal with the laptop. Google mapping and GPSing.

Nothing.

The same thing happens today. Except it's Astrid that goes to the police department. She comes back.

Except it's Hiccup that says, "Now what are we gonna do?"

She runs her hands through her braids. "I don't know… I have no idea. Aster, wake up!"

The giant Australian is asleep on the couch. Astrid throws a pillow at him.

I want to go down to that police station and throw a pillow at them. Or maybe a brick or a bunch of broken glass.

Broken glass, pillows…wait a second.

They start talking. Arguing. Words float away. Everything becomes muffled.

I think about broken glass and pillows. How do those correlate? I know they do. Triggers in my brain pull hard, pull tight. Broken glass and pillows…

Thoughts work overtime. They're coming to get me. Get me through this thin door that can only hold so much back. The door of memories.

Are you really trying to keep us out? We are out here, clawing our way in with fingernails made of steel. And are your lungs made of iron? Can you hold your breath long enough? No, no, you probably can't. But we have something to tell you. We can sense the anger and the fear in your voice and in your face. How your eyes flit side to side while you question your very reality. Are you dreaming? Who knows? But we have an answer. Real answers. You remember that warehouse with the pillows and broken glass. You remember that place, the hidden whorehouse they called The Eclipse. Just like the Nightmare King's eyes. You remember that place, Rapunzel. We know you do. Where else could he have brought Jack? The Eclipse was his safe haven, it probably still is. He brought you there to punish you. He tied your hands to the metal pipes and let them—

Yes, I know what he let people do to me. But Jack is important right now, not self-pity. Thank you. Thank you so much.

I jump to my feet. Newspaper crackles beneath. "Everyone shut up!"

A bunch of eyes look my way.

"Listen. I think I know where Jack is."

Jack

Monday—three days after the date with Pitch, three days after the abduction or whatever this is…

Can't tell if I'm awake or asleep anymore. Time means nothing. I'm thinking about things I haven't thought about in months.

There is an art gallery in this city. I used to go there when I was bored and alone.

Four different ways into the gallery. Four holes in the wall. I know this place so well. To the left, photographs. From the 1960's, the 70's, the 80's. A woman with her hair down, standing next to a pile of books. To the right, expansive white halls. All high ceilings and blank walls. Six-foot paintings full of thick, black trees. So many rectangular sculptures. Jutting towards a black dawn. Sinking towards a yellow twilight.

To the northwest, traditional paintings. Classics by masters. Mostly portraits of tight-lipped people with somber backgrounds. The color of burial shrouds or sugarless cups of coffee. The "Mourning Lady" is here.

To the northeast, sculptures of all kinds. Tribal mannequins carved from wood. Graceful in movement. Water pouring from cliff faces in the middle of the night. Panthers stretched across tree limbs in the baking sun. Earth clinging to their claws, their hands, their fingers, their paws. Classical Grecian statues. Naked Aphrodite with her hands behind her head. Nymphs forever grabbed by satyrs.

And the modern art, one simply called "black plank". A fluorescent stick of light. Canvas doused in red, entitled "Sunset on Verona". But it's just red. Literally just painted red. I want to bang my head into it, lamenting the fact that I didn't think of this sooner. All I need to do to become a famous artist, a two-step program. Step one: acquire blank canvas. Step two: paint it red. Rejoice and cover myself in victory paint. Me and Rapunzel could do that together.

If I ever get out of this.

Oh… I think Pitch is here. Someone is touching me. I'm too tired to fight back. He whispers things like "love" and "forever". But that's crap. Zone out until he is done. Satisfied. He leaves.

Alone again.

Time passes.

World crystallizes at the edge. I fall against wall. Still naked and bare. Green leaves all wet and dripping with spring dew. No, that's not right. Everything feels sad, so it can't be spring. It should be winter. Trees are grey in winter. Encased in ice, scratched and shining under the concrete sky. Children fall into them as they lose their footing in the deep snow. Trees are black in spring. Soaked through with water and sunlight. Their lifeblood must taste so sweet. I wouldn't know. I'm not crazy enough to try shoving a straw into bark. Not yet, anyways.

But it's not spring or winter or summer or fall. It's not anything. Blue skies stretch out all around me. It feels fake. Cardboard cutouts or something. And my eyes are blue butterflies and my smile is sad and real. Closed eyes, hands at my side, palms open towards the sky. Am I looking for something in the clouds? A memory, a past that floats by? Unable to grab either one. My life, probably a long book that would fill many pages, must be so sad and so happy.

This is a sad moment, in case you're wondering.

Worst moment ever. And there is no sky. Only darkness. My hallucinations are getting worse.

I missed work. I might be here forever. I might… die? Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe my mouth will turn to mud and my muddled eyes will fall from my face and my mutilated body will melt into the metal. Murdered by the man that hurt me long ago. Murdered by my own stupid decision.

My decision.

My fault.

This is all my fault. My fault. My problem. My fault. My own stupid decision that has ruined everything. It has to be my fault becomes I brought this on myself. I met him, I followed him, I never fought back. And I didn't check my drink or stop to think. Victims become perpetrators. Perpetrators becomes victims. He cried when I slapped him. I felt bad. He cried when I testified against him. I felt bad. He cried when he stabbed me. I felt bad. So this has to be my fault. All my fault.

"My fault…"

"No."

"Y-Y-Yes…"

"No."

"Yes!"

"No! It's okay, Jack. It's okay. Look at me. Look at me, Jack!"

Huh? This has to be a dream. Because that's Rapunzel's voice and Rapunzel is far away. Forgetting about me, the guy that chose a criminal over her. She's so far away, she's almost a fairytale. A girl locked in a tower by an evil mother. Living and dreaming and waiting for her life to begin. She isn't here. She never will be.

"Jack! I'm here. It's me, Rapunzel."

There's no way.

"Jack!" Hands grab my face, pull me upright. And then my eyes clear and I see her. Rapunzel. Green eyes, freckles, face so perfect it can't be real.

"Rapunzel."

She smiles. Crying. "Yes, yes it's me." Strong arms lift me up. Wire cutters sever the cuffs. They all fall to the floor. "Come on, we have to hurry. Pitch could come back. Any second now, any second."

Eyes flit around.

I lean against her. My legs shaking. "Where… where am I?"

"A warehouse. One of Pitch's whorehouses. It's not in use anymore; I guess it's just a hideout now." More flitting eyes, more nervous breaths.

"But, how did you—"

"I'll explain everything later. Walk, Jack. You're almost out of here."

Almost makes me nervous.

As it should.

We walk up the stairs, stopping every few moment so I can breathe. "Almost there, Jack."

Almost makes me nervous.

As it should.

Because when she opens the door, he's standing there. The Nightmare King.

This is why almost scares me. I cower behind Rapunzel. Naked body aching and burning.

Like the Tears For Fears song, so glad we almost made it. So sad we had to fade it. Everybody wants to rule the world.

Rapunzel

Let me explain. I remembered The Eclipse. We piled into two cars and drove off. Sat in the passenger side, head out the window, pointing and reading the road signs. I knew the way. We pulled into a broken down parking lot. Black weeds and broken glass. De-feathered pillows scattered all around.

Hiccup picked the back door lock. We burst in, not thinking or caring. We didn't even come with weapons. What a bunch of morons. All I brought was some wire cutters, just in case. Standing there, breathing hard. Our eyes were wide and full of hate. There were guards and shit. Pitch's minions.

It was a quick fight. Blurred by legs and feet and hands that broke noses and faces and ribcages. Astrid yelled, "Go, Rapunzel! Find him!"

So I ran.

Pitch used to keep the "bad girls" in the basement. As punishment. Jack was there. I knew it.

And he was. Lying naked on the floor. Pale skin cold to touch. I shivered when I grabbed him. We climbed step after step.

We opened the door and…

Damn it, damn it, damn it. Life isn't fair. Not fair at all.

He said, "Hello, darling." And stared at me with those eclipse eyes.

I said, "Hello, asshole." And stared back.

"Taking my prize away?"

"He's not your prize."

"You're my prize, too, Rapunzel. Or as the customers used to call you, 'the girl with the magic fingers'."

"Go to hell."

He laughed. "Oh sweetheart, I'm already there. And I'm the King."

He hit me before I could answer. Knockout. Fatality. Imminent death.

Wake up slowly. Heart rocking in my chest, I look around. Pitch's car? I remember this thing. I've been in it before. Black seats, smudged windows with the dying light pouring in. Glass is the color of a dead face.

Someone is talking in the front seat. Eclipse eyes glare at me from the rearview mirror. The eyes knit together, an angry line straight down his face.

"Listen, you bitch. I'm getting rid of you. Permanently. You'll be dead before he even wakes up. You'll be where you belong, in a ditch. Because that's where whores go. You're worthless, you understand? You are nothing to him. And you never will be."

I would cry. But I don't care anymore.

He's talking and I'm not listening. Jack is unconscious next to me. My heart is pounding. This is it, the chance to change everything. Last time I was in this car, I was being taken to The Eclipse. But not this time. My hands may be bound, my head may be pounding, but I can change this. No more fear. No more shame. No more shadows that haunt us in the middle of the night.

No more.

So I do something really stupid.

It happens in two parts. Two acts, a budgeted set, and terrible actors. Act one, in which I proceed to stop a moving vehicle. I break my thumbs without thinking. It doesn't even hurt. Slide out of the handcuffs, cursing and crying. Blonde hair in front of green eyes, hands against the driver's seat. I push it, thrusting Pitch forward. Head smacks the steering wheel. A grunt, some wet, red blood. He pops back up. No time for hesitation! I wrap my arms around the head rest. Grab his face, his eyelids, and his lips. He starts yelling. Screaming at the top of his lungs.

I scream back. "You are not taking him! You understand that! You are never hurting him again!"

And then I jump into the front. Lunge over the console and the gear shift. Grab the steering wheel with both hands. Kicking him and thrashing around.

"Get off me!"

"Never, never, never!"

The car swerves. Left, right, left, right. Zigging and zagging across the road.

Now he's crying. "I-I can't steer!"

"That's the point, bitch!"

Left, right, left, right. Pitch tries to take the steering wheel from me. There's no way in hell. He bites out pieces of my hair, goes for my scalp. I won't let him. I bang my head back. Over and over and over again. Until I hear a crunch. Turn the steering wheel all the way to the left. And then I jump to the floor of the passenger's side. Curling up into a ball, hands over my head. Because I know what's coming.

Hear Pitch gasp.

Act two, in which I successfully crash a car. It speeds into a tree. Slowing down just enough, spinning in circles. Asphalt thrown into the air. Chunks of white lines and yellow dots. I watch them fly outside. Swarms of dust. A lot faster than I thought. An old tree covered in bird shit. Long branches scratching the top of the car. Windshield cracking because the car hasn't really slowed down, has it? It's going faster than ever. Skidding across the grass, falling off the road and tumbling down. The traffic light flips upside down. And then the car's doing backflips. Dirt explodes onto the broken windshield. Metal splits and flies every which way. We're flipping.

And I'm smiling like a maniac. Because I changed it. I changed everything.

Jack

I wake up and the car is spinning. What the hell? No time for questions. Just roll with it, Jack. Cover your head and scream.

List of things I taste when doing barrel rolls in Pitch's car: Pancakes, hot and melting in my teeth, or maybe that's blood? Candle wax. That's something I'd like to do with Rapunzel, make candles in the middle of the night, just for fun. Antiseptic, from hospital rooms and doctor's bags. Silver, chrome, metal. Chlorine, accidentally drinking the pool water and clinging to the ladder, water droplets in my hair. Bug spray in dark nights, thick clouds above my forehead. Tap water, salt water, ice water full of frozen strawberries. And then I realize that it's just a bunch of blood and all of these images are a load of crap. My brain on overdrive. Rolling and rolling until I come to a stop at the bottom of the ditch. Glass exploding. It sprays across my face. And when it all stops, I'm covered in paper cuts. Clutching my hands against my chest, eyes wider than the moon.

I am a waning crescent. Rapunzel is full, round, dripping with silver. Pitch is nothing.

He is… dead.

Shattered windshield is speckled with blood. All jagged puzzle pieces put together. Paint smeared everywhere. The Nightmare King is sprawled across the grass, leg bent in half, head smashed in. There's a tree bark pattern on his face.

I bang on the twisted metal. Palms sweaty, chest heaving. Rapunzel kicks the door out for me. It goes flying, hits a pile of concrete in the distance. There must be a construction crew around here. Maybe they can come over and give Pitch hard hat. Too late. I stumble over to the body. Give it a kick. Waste of time. Pitch glanced off the hood of his car, rolled over and under, landing on his face. It's quiet.

"What… what happened?"

"I crashed the car. Pitch was going who knows where. He was going to kill me and take you away. Forever. So I did what I had to do, Jack. I'm sorry. I-I know you love hi—"

I shake my head. "No. I don't. I was afraid of him. That's all it was. Fear."

We fall into silence.

The sun is fading. Birds are squawking overhead. High up in the sky. Wind slipping in between tree branches. Trees stand next to the road. Cringing, hoping the blood will wipe off. But the blades are quiet. Bent beneath Pitch's body, blood congealing on the grass and bits of concrete. It's so, so quiet. I close my eyes and I could be anywhere. On an island in the middle of the ocean. Salt water lapping at my bare feet. On the rotting porch of an old cabin. Smelling pine, wet and sticky, and sweet flowers that grow beneath weathered rocks. I open my eyes and I could only be in one place. Off the road, in a ditch near the highway, looking at a dead man and wondering why fixing things is so hard.

And I want to cry for him. I really do. But I also want to cry for me and my stupid ass decisions and my real ass that is bruised black and blue. And I want to cry for Rapunzel because she helped some guy that didn't even say "I love you, too" and she saved him and crashed a car for him. She could have died. She could have flown through the windshield and cracked her skull open. I want to cry for Hiccup and the worry that twists his insides. That sweet, sweet guy that would do anything for me. I want to cry for Astrid because she puts up with me and lets me spend night after night in that apartment. I want to cry for Merida and her strong arms that hug me when I'm sad. She says, "I'll always be here for you, ya wee lamb." I want to cry for Tooth and the cancer that she isn't even afraid of. I want to cry for Aster and the lame job he has and the kindness he tries so hard to hide.

But I can't cry for anyone right now.

Except for her.

That little girl that died on my operating table. She pops into my brain. All at once. Like that song that reminds me of Pitch or the sunbeams that remind me of Rapunzel. Her face fills every inch of me. Why do I think of her now?

I hear footsteps. Someone's behind me. "Jack, I—"

"This is my fault..."

Rapunzel's whispering into my ear. "Jack. Jack, stop."

She touches my arm. It makes me flinch. What's wrong with me?

"You didn't do this. Any of this. None of it's your fault."

My face is twisted with so much confusion and hatred for her right now. Behind my hands, I'm biting my lip, not knowing what to say. "It's not… it's not?"

"No, it's not."

How could she say that? Not my fault? "If this isn't my fault…"

"Stop it, Jack."

I'm on her in a second. Bearing down on her with my eyes. Eyes blue as ice, cold as shivers that run up my spine. "The hell do you know? Everything is my fault. I make people worry and I act like a useless shit half the time. I'm selfish and you're too damn nice. You're too damn nice to me, Rapunzel! And now someone's dead and I… I made you do that…"

She isn't fazed. "Stop. It."

Each word punched out. As if on a typewriter. Rapunzel doesn't mind that I'm bearing down on her. Catching her like a star in my net. I catch her and want to extinguish her right there because she is so much stronger than I am. I am jealous of her. That calm demeanor, standing before a fire and never blinking.

I should be dead. Just like that girl on the table. Just like Pitch.

Feel the tears. Hot and ready to fall. I fall to my knees in the bloodstained grass.

Wish I was dead.

No, stupid Jack, don't feel sorry for yourself. Just bury your face in your knees. Forget about who you want to cry for and just do it.

I'm crying into my bare skin.

Arms wrap around me. She is behind and before and above and everywhere all at once. Golden hair covers me. A waterfall. Soft lips brush my ear.

"Stop it. It's not your fault."

"Y-You keep saying that—"

"Just listen. It's not your fault. None of it is. Not Pitch's death, or that little girl's, or your sister's death. It's not your fault. Hiccup's accident isn't your fault, and neither is Tooth's cancer. Yeah, she told Merida. She told us all. And guess what? It isn't your fault. What happened to me isn't your fault. What happened to Merida isn't your fault. What happened to you isn't your fault. Want to know whose fault it is? Life's. But you can't blame life or death or some abstract concept like fate. Shit happens, Jack. Shit happens to good people every day. And it sucks and it's not fair. You can yell at God all you want and blame the world, but never, ever blame yourself for stuff like this. Blame yourself when you're late to work 'cause you slept in, or when you forget to go buy groceries, or when you don't look and back into someone's car. But don't you dare blame yourself for what others do to you. It's not your fault."

Not much to say. Face full of tears, nose full of snot, I try to smile. "Who are you, the psychiatrist from Good Will Hunting?"

She laughs and cries at the same time. "Yeah, guess I am." Fingers weave through my hair then grab at my chest. Over and over again. Then she hugs me tighter than ever. "And you're a good man, Jack. And you're gonna be okay. I promise."

That's all I need. Now I can rest easy. Promises mean more coming from her. With arms wrapped around me and kisses on my spine, I can sleep. For a little while. Maybe dream of my sister. She's probably playing with the little boy that died in that lake. I'll see him, too. Maybe even bring him back with me. Grab his hand and say, "It's okay, you can come back now. You're not alone anymore."

Yeah, I'll do that. Give my sister a kiss on the forehead and bring him home. But for now I'll sleep. With golden hair for a blanket. I'll stay awake for a few more seconds, though.

I smile. Bigger than I have in months. And no one's here to see. So I turn around and find those bright green eyes. Here it goes, my last hurrah. My last bit of strength. My last surge of confidence before I cry again. I rest my forehead against hers and say, "I love you, Rapunzel. Can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

And we do just that. Lips warm, tasting like blood and tears and something golden. We kiss, and there is light.

When she pulls away, she is smiling.

I run a finger over her lips. "Now… now I feel safe."

"Me too."

That's it. That is all I need.


	10. Epilogue: Recovery

I am a surgeon. A damn good one. But sometimes even surgeons need surgeons. I wonder what they thought when they rolled me in. Pale hair black with dried blood. Body naked and bruised and looking like something raw you find in the freezer. They must have glanced at each other, eyes going back and forth.

"Dr. Overland."

"It's Jackson Overland… what happened?"

Yeah, that's probably what they said. Slowly. Carefully. Afraid that I would wake up at any second. I performed surgery on a dermatologist once. And it was just weird. Anybody with an MD just feels untouchable to me. Like one of those plastic anatomical models of the human body. You know, the ones they sell at toy stores to little kids that think it's cool to tear out the internal organs. Little plastic lungs and little plastic kidneys. You strewn them out across your desk that's covered in crayon graffiti. And you smile and pretend that you're an alien doctor torturing a silly little human.

Everything is little.

Everything is silly.

Then you grow up and the world is a big, hot mess. A shithole. That little plastic body is broken at the bottom of your toy box.

My body was pretty broken when I arrived at the hospital. The same one that I work at. How awkward, how funny. Clear lights overhead. An alien invasion. Metal tools on the rolling table, cuts and incisions and an oxygen mask that turns people into useless breathing machines. Of course, I don't remember lying on that table. I was asleep. But how funny would it be if I wasn't?

All I know is this: after the car accident, Rapunzel called 911. Of course she did. But how funny would it be if she didn't? White coats checked her out. Blue scrubs tried to fix me. Two broken ribs, severe bruising, lacerations, slight head trauma, dehydration, and a minor anal fissure. But the real issue was the drugs. Whatever the hell he was giving me. They had to pump my stomach. Unconscious the whole time, I guess extra precautions had to be taken. Oxygen masks and IVs in my wrists. Holy shit, I'm so happy they didn't cut me.

Rapunzel told me all this. When I woke up, thirsty and nauseous and trying to smile. I woke up and saw them all. Punzie, chin in her hands, elbows on the edge of the bed. Hiccup, literally lying next to me. Astrid and Aster leaning against the wall, right under the shitty television. Merida was to my right, sitting on a plastic chair. Tooth was kneeling and smiling with those perfect teeth. Both of them had short hair. That's new.

I took a deep breath. Looked around the hospital room. Sometimes real life feels like a dream. Colors are so, so saturated. TV on and muttering, mumbling, whispering into your ears. And your ears feel so raw. And these colors are raw. Freshly cut from the garden. Fresh from the butcher's shop.

Her golden hair was dripping.

His eyes were two green swimming pools.

Her braids were living rope that tied us all together.

His tattoos were spinning.

Her teeth were perfect stones.

Her freckles were constellations that told me our fates were undetermined.

Our fates are ours to control.

They hugged me without saying a word. Some of them crying. Some of them whispering things I couldn't really understand. But I don't care. As long as they're here. Arms gripping me, lips kissing my arms and face. Gently, now. Gently.

I smiled because I finally got it. The elusive answer to my question. Why do I have to be so alone? You're not alone, Jack. You don't have to be. Just look around you, idiot. You have so many people that love you. And they want to be close. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. Get out of the ice, Jack. Break free already.

I have broken free. I really have. The ice is broken and silent, behind me forever.

Now all I have to do is get better. Physically speaking. It's getting dark outside and Hiccup's the only one here. Gotta let people eat dinner, go back to work, whatever else it is people do. It's Thursday. Three days ago, I was a prisoner. Now I'm, I'm here. Staring at the TV, some kids cartoon about a doctor that fixes toys. Hic's lying beside me. Legs crossed, hands folded on his chest. Like we're enjoying a nice day at his apartment. Just watching TV and maybe having a fist fight over the remote.

"She's a pretty decent doctor."

"Yeah, I guess. But what's her name? They call her Doc, is Doc her name?"

Hic shrugs. "Maybe. But her mom's a doctor, and if her name is Doc," he rolls his eyes "then that's like me naming my kid 'nurse' or 'MMA fighter'. What were these parent's thinking?"

"Have no idea…" My voice is fading. Sleep seems nice right now. Or maybe some morphine or some shit to knock me out.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

He squints. "Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?"

"Nowhere. I'm fine."

"You're such a liar."

I sigh. "Am not. I'm just tired. I need a nap or something. Here, I'll lay on my side, you break out your sketchbook and paint me like one of your French girls."

He groans and rolls his eyes again. "You're delirious. Hold on, I'll get you more painkillers."

"You don't have to, Hic. Hic…"

Ignoring me, he rolls off my bed and runs out into the hallway. I hear, "Hey, hey, can the patient in room 300 get more morphine? He's a top surgeon! Fine, just give it to me, I'll do it. I'm a nurse, you idiot. I work here! Just give the meds to me!"

Laughing makes my sides hurt. So I close my eyes and think of nothing. Absolutely nothing. For me, nothing is a summer rain that never falls. Clouds gather overhead, the sky turns black, and what happens? Nothing. Or when try to use Internet Explorer, what happens? Nothing. Or when you just orgasmed and you're trying so hard to do it again, what happens? Nothing. Stupid men and their stupid refractory period. Thinking of orgasming makes me think of Rapunzel. Which is perverted and gross, I know. But what else do I have to think about?

Nothing really isn't working for me.

Soft afternoon rains and shitty internet browsers are too abstract. I need concrete. Something I can hold onto. Because I'm no mental health expert, but I know that I should be experiencing trauma right about now. I was drugged, abducted, beaten and shackled in a basement. I was raped.

I'm a rape victim.

I am… a rape victim.

Like in Law and Order: SVU, except this is real and not a TV show and nothing could ever make you understand unless you lived it. Felt it. Saw it over and over again in your mind's eye. No amount of television or well researched articles. No matter how much you empathize, sympathize, patronize or whatever the hell else you do to people like me. Nothing can prepare you for this. As you sit in your hospital bed and suddenly realize what just happened.

Not much to say about it. No way to describe it.

Only that I've never felt this violated. And it's not even the normal kind of violation like 'oh you looked at my diary' or some stupid shit like that. No. This is so much worse than violation. They should invent a different word, a completely new set of syllables to describe this. Like how they coined the term sexual harassment in the 1970's. There should a term for this feeling. Because without a word to describe it, no one will believe or understand it. No one.

I cry. Let the tears drip down my hospital gown. IVs stabbing my wrists, blue veins bulging beneath my skin. Raw. An uncooked thing you find in the freezer.

Maybe I really am alo—

"Jack?"

"Rapunzel."

I didn't know she was coming. She's at the door. Halfway in, halfway out. Feet on white tile, on black asphalt, on brown dirt, on red magma. Layers of the earth piled atop each other and she is above it all. Standing like a champion in cut-off shorts and a baggy tank top. My blue jacket is tied around her waist.

"You don't have to stop crying."

"Yeah, I guess it doesn't matter if you see. You've seen my cry like a baby more than enough."

"No, that's not it." She walks slowly across the tile. Dragging her feet. Tattered laces touch the floor. "That's not it all. You should be crying. I've been waiting for you to cry since you woke up. But you're strong, Jack. So much stronger than you think."

"Maybe."

"You are." She sits on the bed, right next to me. Fingers play with the frayed drawstrings. "I'm sorry we haven't talked much since Monday. A lot has happened. A bunch of people have come to see you, you're still recovering, I just wanted to give you time to take it all in. And you need time to think about it… think about everything."

"It's fine, Punzie. I've been asleep most of the time." Laughing doesn't hurt as much around her.

"Yeah. Not to be a creeper, but you're pretty cute when you sleep."

"That's not creepy at all. You're cute when you sleep, too."

She raises her eyebrows. "When have you seen me sleep?"

"The first time you came over to Hic's apartment, when we played Sorry and you fell asleep in that chair. So I guess we're both Edward Cullen creepers."

We stare at each other and burst out laughing. Like I said, it doesn't hurt as much. She touches my hand. Her hands are bandaged up. Band-Aids on her arms and legs. The car accident banged her up, too. But she's tough. Tougher than anyone I've ever known.

Laughter fades, falls into the background like static. I lean back against the pillows and sigh. Holding her fingers, tracing the lines of her palm. "Sorry you got hurt because of me."

"Well I'm not. I'm glad I have these bandages. They remind me that what you went through was real, not just some nightmare."

"You went through it, too."

"No, not like you. All I did was crash a car, you were—"

"That's not what I'm talking about." I grip her hand tight. Her fingertips turn white. "You went through it, too."

The tears come fast to her eyes. She nods. "And now you have…"

"And now I understand why I upset you that one time. When I said that stupid thing on the stairs and scared you. I get why you left your mother and why you didn't want anyone to know you had just moved in. I get why you hated Pitch. I just, I get it."

"But I don't want you to get it, damnit! I don't want anyone to go through that shit. I don't want you to walk around in my shoes or whatever. I just want you to be treated like a human being!"

She throws herself at me. In the most gentle sort of way. Hugs and soft kisses on my shoulder blades. Golden hair falls across my hospital gown. Faded blue diamonds, white cotton, wires and IVs and a mechanical beeping that never stops. We are machines. Cold in this refrigerator of a place. Hearts pumping together. Fingers clenching and toes curling into the sheets. We are organic. Blood slipping down the plastic tube. Morphine and water and potassium. Sweat that sticks to everything. But we don't care. Her bare shoulders are spattered with freckles. When she leans into me, I can see the purple bra, the bars of light from the half-shut blinds. Skin flushed red, purple cotton that crisscrosses down her back, dots of white from the fluorescent bulbs. She is beautiful. I am anything but. We are human beings. We are alive.

I hug her for a long time. The moon rises and she falls asleep. Right beside me with her hand in mine. The nurses don't bother to tell her to go home. Good. I don't want her to leave. Drifting off is easy with her. Eyelids flutter. I can see the stars through the blinds. I can see her face, pretty and perfect. I can see our future. No more total darkness. We'll walk into the light, hand in hand.

But we'll never forget who we are. Two separate people who just happen to match up. I'm not some melancholy guy looking for a muse. She's not some manic pixie dream girl. We don't need to fix each other. We don't need to save each other. Just help each other out when we can. And I'll walk in the dusk, with the moon rising high. And she'll walk in the dawn, with the sun blazing on the horizon.

When the day meets the night, great things can happen. When the night meets the day, life feels different.

One year later…

Summer is long and hot this year. But we don't mind. Sprinklers in the park, blades of grass soaked in the sun. I come home from the hospital and wait for her. She works at the Abuse Counseling and Treatment center, aka ACT. It's close to our apartment. Yes, our apartment. We live across from Hiccup and Astrid now. Together.

They're doing well. Hic proposed a few months ago on that cliff by the sea. The rest of us were hiding in the bushes. Tooth took some candid pictures. Merida lit some sparklers when Astrid screamed and said yes. Then we burst out, leaves in our hair, and Astrid almost kicked Aster to his death. Her reflexes are killer.

Wedding's in the fall. When the trees are orange and the sky is filled with pink clouds. Guess what the theme is? You ready for this shit?

Vikings.

No, really.

I have never heard of something so odd, so random, so Hiccup and Astrid. So Hiccstrid. It fits them perfectly. Not sure what I'll where. I've heard rumors that Aster is sowing a custom dress for Astrid. Some fiery and kickass like her.

Aster still works at the fabric store. But he comes over for beers and board games almost every weekend. Can only assume he's happy. That sexy, Australian smile tells me he is.

Tooth is in remission. I don't usually say this, but thank God, thank the doctors, thank the universe for giving her a break. Don't get me wrong, she fought this cancer herself. She defeated it. She won. And now she and Merida have moved into a house. Like an actual house with a lawn and swing set in the back just for them. Got a new car, too. A dentist and a nurse make a damn good amount of money. Their housewarming party is next week.

That's almost everyone. But then there's Pitch. Not much to say there. The guy's dead. He's been dead for about a year now. I didn't go the funeral. I don't even think he had one. It all sounds so depressing. But what were you expecting? A silver lining at the edge of mine and Pitch's tale? No. That's not how life works. Shit happens every day. Stars keep burning. Worlds keep turning. And you leave your past buried six feet under.

Yesterday is gone. Today is Saturday and I come home early. Surgeries are still surgeries. People live. People die. But I talk to the other surgeons now and I talk to the nurses, too. I stay away from the patients, though. Some things never change. A surgeon still needs to stay away. All of us are cold and detached when we tell you that your loved one died. That's how we are. That's how we have to be.

Today was a good day. No deaths. Just a little girl that got hit by a car. I cut her open, stitched her up, and a few hours later she was smiling up at me. Groggy, bruised, but still alive.

Now I'm sitting on the couch. Me and Punzie bought it at Ikea. Aster helped us put it together. The apartment is full of furniture, potted plants, and art supplies. Her latest painting sits in the corner. A massive lake, a rowboat, and lanterns drifting across the water. She calls them 'floating lights'.

I stare at it. Cold lemonade in my hand, straw between my teeth. Straw makes me think of strawberries.

I think of the frozen strawberries that sit in our freezer. Punzie uses them to make strawberry shortcake. Why she puts them in the freezer, I'll never know. Everything is fringed in frost. Trapped in a block of white ice.

When she gets home, she throws her bag aside, opens the freezer and smashes them with a hammer until they're free. We always keep that hammer under the sink. In case of emergency or in case of frozen strawberries. After a few hours of cursing and burning fingers, she slides a rose colored plate across the kitchen table.

"Ta da, a strawberry shortcake. Isn't it cute?"

"Adorable."

"Don't be a smartass, Jack." She grins and sticks it with a fork.

"I'm not, I'm not." I take a bite, running my tongue over my lips. "It really is too precious for this world. Maybe we should adopt it! Oooh what should we name it?"

"You really are a smart ass!"

And it descends into a cake fight. Laughing, we smear shortcake across faces, arms and legs. Whipped cream sticks to her hair. Strawberry pieces fall into my bangs. We roll across the floor. Across paint-stained newspapers and open books. She pins me like Nala pins Simba. Her smile ten times sexier than the kangaroo's. Knees straddle my waist. Floral skirt fans out around her. Never tearing her eyes away, she pulls her shirt off and throws it to the ground. Sitting on my stomach, she is a queen. Sunburnt skin and wide green eyes. That purple bra looks familiar. She gets so attached to things. Watch the rise and fall of her chest. The pulse in her neck. Lips are shiny and wet.

I'm already getting hard.

"Hang on, Casanova." She leans over me and turns her iPod on. Gone, Gone, Gone starts playing.

I'm breathing hard. Her body bent up in so many angles. Boobs right over my face as she adjusts the volume.

"Perfect. Now let's go."

She returns and starts kissing my neck. I like the build-up. We're a slow moving couple. It took a while for us to make out, let alone have sex. We talked it out, came up with safewords and learned everything there is to know. We understand each other. No miscommunication. No awkward explanations. Times like these are even more special. I run my hands up and down her waist. Along the pink flowers. And then under the skirt, feeling the soft panties. And then under those, feeling the softness that is her. Warm and wet. I know what she likes. She showed me how to please her a while ago. Guided my fingers along the bud, into the crevices. She asked me to show her, too. So I did. Guided her hand across my special spots. Taught her how to finger me from behind. She knows how I like it.

Like I said, we understand each other. Every detail.

Curve of her hips, arch of her spine. Shape of my chest, the tenderness of my jaw. I know the sounds, the moans and whimpers that make me hot. She's gasping right now. Holding back the little squeaks that I love. She sits up, head thrown back as she moves with my fingers. A steady rhythm that matches the music. It's on loop. So are my fingers.

Sweat beads. It runs down our temples and cheeks. She's groaning and gripping my shirt. See her toes curl and now she's panting. She pulls my fingers out of her panties and licks them clean, still breathing hard.

"You're so good at making me come, Jack…"

"Of course. I mean, look at me, I'm a crazy sex machine."

She laughs, biting at my index. "Now it's my turn. I'm a blowjob beast. You know it's true. I'm gonna make you feel so good. So good."

Here she goes. The slow descent. Starts at my head and then moves down, kissing every inch of me. She comes to my pants and unzips them. Pulls my hard dick out of my boxers and gets started. And wow, just wow. Rapunzel really is a blowjob beast. Eyes shut, I let the moans rise up and out. Hands clawing at the newspaper, my heart banging against my ribcage.

We all know about that damn refractory period. So after I come, I finger Rapunzel again and watch her writhe. A few more kisses. Now we're spooning on the floor. This is as far as we'll go today. It's enough for us.

We'll lie here for an hour, maybe two. Whispering about nothing. For us, nothing is traffic and random acts of kindness and surgeries and victims that she wants to help. Nothing is everything. Who needs psychopathic exes and evil mothers? Who needs pimps and secret letters and break-ins?

Not this guy, that's for sure.

The slow life is perfect. Not slow as in boring. Slow as in perfectly paced. Everyone has a preferred speed. We're all cars driving down this infinite highway. Rapunzel is just my speed. I am hers.

I'd do anything for her. And she'd do the same for me.

Gone, Gone, Gone keeps looping. I listen and the words seem true. Because one day one of us will be gone. One of us will die or leave or maybe the world really will end and both of us will be gone. But no matter what happens, we'll always love each other. As cliché and corny as that sounds. It's damn true.

I sing the next part to her. Softly in her ear.

"When you fall like a statue  
I'm gon' be there to catch you  
Put you on your feet, you on your feet.  
And if your well is empty  
Not a thing will prevent me.  
Tell me what you need, what do you need?

I surrender honestly.  
You've always done the same for me."

"You promise?"

"Huh?"

"You promise that you'll surrender honestly and do all that other stuff?"

"Well, yeah. I love you."

"I love you, too." She sighs and snuggles into me. "But this is the most important question. Do you still feel safe with me?"

"Yeah. I'm always safe with you. Do you feel safe with me?"

Rapunzel turns around. Strands of hair strung across her face. A smile blossoming like the sun. We're inches apart. Her freckles might jump off. Her eyes might swallow me whole.

"I feel safer than ever, Jack. You're a great surgeon and a great man. I'm a great ACT volunteer and a pretty great woman. And we're two human beings that are alive and in love. How could I not feel safe?"

We close our eyes, do that silly forehead bump that couples do in fanfiction all the time. We hug each other tight.

She lives beneath my fingertips. She says that my light has come back, and I think it has. It really has.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that :). So I posted this on fanfic and thought I would try it out here. It's still in progress...so let's see what happens.


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